THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

Rare  Books  Dept. 

BEQUEST 

OF 
ANITA  D.  S.  BLAKE 


SOJfGS  &f  SONNZTS  OF 
TI8RR8  <D8  TtONSARD 
gSNTLSMAN  OF  VS^ 
<DOMOIS  SSL8CTSD  & 


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WITH  <LAN  INTR  OD  UC- 
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BOSTON  &r  ^(SW  YORK 


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Copyright  1903  by  Curtis  Hidden  Page 
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TO 


MASTER  OF  ALL  WHO  CHARM  MEN'S  EARS  WITH  RHYME, 
RONSARD,  I  MARVEL  STILL  HOW  WONDROUSLY 
JOINING  TRUE  SENSE  WITH  LARGE  FREE  HARMONY 

YOUR  THOUGHT  MADE  WORDS  ITS  SLAVES,  AND  SOUND  ITS 

MIME. 

BUT  MORE  THAN  PERFECT  SPEECH  OR  ART  SUBLIME 

I  LOVE  YOUR  PASSION  FOR  OLD  POESY, 

YOUR  MAD,  YOUR  HOLY  HOPE,  THAT  YOU  SHOULD  BE 
AN  ORPHEUS,  TO  MEN  BORN  OUT  OF  DUE  TIME. 

SINCE  SKIES  AND  WAVES  AND  WOODS  AND  COUNTRY-SIDE 
NO  MORE  HAD  SOULS,  BLACK  GLOOM  ENWRAPPED  ALL 

THINGS. 
THE  WORLD  IS  EMPTY,  WITHOUT  POESY. 

YOU  CAME,  YOU  SEIZED  THE  LYRE  IN  NOBLE  PRIDE, 
YOU  GAVE  NEW  GLORY  TO  ITS  SEVEN  STRINGS, 
AND  TO  THE  GODS  NEW  IMMORTALITY. 

SULLY  PRUDHOMME 


TOLEDO  HAD  A  CUSTOM,  LONG  AGO, 

THAT  ERE  HE  CLAIMED  A  WORKMAN'S  NAME  AND  RIGHT 
EACH  PRENTICE  ARMORER  FOR  ONE  LONG  NIGHT 

MUST  WATCH  AND  TOIL  IN  FURNACE-SMOKE  AND  GLOW, 

A  MASTER-WORK  IN  STEEL  TO  FASHION  SO, 
SUPPLE  AS  REED,  AND  AS  A  FEATHER  LIGHT. 
THEN  ON  THE  BLADE  OF  IT,  STILL  WARM  AND  BRIGHT, 

HE  GRAVED  HIS  MASTER'S  NAME,  HIS  THANKS  TO  SHOW. 

RONSARD,  FOR  THEE  I  HAVE  TOILED  THE  WHOLE  NIGHT 

LONG. 

MY  HUMBLE  PRENTICE  HAND  FOR  THEE  HAS  SOUGHT 
TO  SHAPE  THE  SONNET,  FLEXIBLE  AND  STRONG 

EVEN  AS  A  SWORD.  MY  SOUNDING  HAMMER  WROUGHT 
LONG  THE  TRUE  METAL,  SHINING  FROM  THE  FLAME. 
NOW  ON  THE  BLADE  I  GRAVE  THY  GLORIOUS  NAME. 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 


FlRST  CELEBRANT  OF  NEW-FOUND  POESY, 

SINGER  OF  LIFE  NEW-BORN  IN  EUROPE'S  SPRING, 
LOVER  OF  YOUTH  AND  LOVE,  THY  PASSIONING 

RE-ECHOES  IN  MEN*S  HEARTS  ETERNALLY. 


WEEPS  THE  SWIFT  FATE  OF  EVERY  BEAUTEOUS  THING, 
AND  OH !  THE  TEARS  OF  IT,  THAT  YOUTH  MUST  DIE. 

WE  TOO  ARE  YOUNG,  RONSARD,  AND  PLEDGE  THY  NAME 
TO-DAY,  O  POET  OF  ROSES,  POET  OF  FLAME, 
POET  OF  YOUTH  ETERNAL,  POET  OF  LOVE. 

MY  OWN  SWIFT-DYING  YOUTH  TO  THEE  I  GIVE, 

TO  MAKE  MEN  KNOW  THY  LIVING  FAME,  AND  PROVE 

THY  FAITH THAT  YOUTH  MAY  DIE,  BUT  SONG  MUST 

LIVE. 

C.  H.  P. 


TISRRS 

'Poet  of  the  '^Renaissance 


N  the  self-same  year  of  this  so  unhappy 
defeat  of  our  arms  at  Pavia,"  says  De 
Thou  in  the  eighty-second  book  of  his 
'  '  Universal  History,  "  <  «  there  came  into 
the  world  Pierre  de  Ronsard  ;  as  though 
God  had  sought  to  compensate  France 
for  the  debasement  of  her  fame  which  that  battle  wrought 
(jacturam  nominis  Gallici  eo  praelio  factam*),  and  for 
the  almost  utter  ruin  of  our  fortunes  which  followed 
thereupon  (jet  secutum  ex  illo  veluti  nostrarum  rerum 
interitum},  by  the  birth  of  so  great  a  man.  '  '  If  the  ven- 
erable judge  and  grave  historian  could  speak  in  this  way, 
we  need  not  wonder  at  the  attitude  of  Ronsard'  s  bio- 
grapner  and  disciple,  Binet.  "  Great  as  was  the  misfor- 
tune of  this  unhappy  disaster,"  he  says,  "it  may  well 
be  doubted  whether  on  that  Fate-marked  day  there  came 
not  to  France  a  benefit  and  glory  yet  greater,  by  the 
happy  birth  of  her  poet." 

Ronsard  was  born,  not,  as  Binet  would  have  it,  on  the 
very  day  of  the  battle  at  which  King  Francis  I.  was  de- 
feated and  captured  by  Charles  V.  ,  but  within  a  year  of 
it,  and  by  the  Old  Style  calendar,  in  the  same  year.  The 
exact  date  is  probably  September  1  1,  1524.  He  came 
of  one  of  the  noble  families  of  France,  going  back  at  least 
to  the  reign  of  Philip  of  Valois  ;  and  his  mother's  family 


was  allied,  by  various  marriages,  with  the  very  greatest 
of  the  nation,  the  Montpensiers,  the  Condes,  and  the 
Guises  themselves,  branches  of  the  royal  blood.  The 
Chateau  de  la  Poissonniere,  Ronsard's  birthplace,  is 
still  standing,  in  the  heart  of  that  Loire  country  which  is 
the  very  centre  of  France  and  the  home  of  the  Renais- 
sance chateaux  ;  not  by  La  Loire  itself,  however,  but 
by  the  smaller  river  Le  Loir,  which  flows  through  Ven- 
dome.  Like  other  chateaux  of  the  region,  this  one  has 
its  great  central  chimney  built  of  hewn  stones,  on  which 
are  carved  the  armorial  bearings  of  the  family  ;  you  may 
still  see  there  the  flames  and  roses  that  represent  Ron- 
sard,  for  the  name,  said  ancient  heraldry,  is  from  Ronce, 
the  briar-rose,  and  ardre,  to  burn.  Though  modern  ety- 
mology may  disprove  the  derivation,  it  cannot  take  away 
the  significance.  He  was  the  poet  of  flame  and  the  poet 
of  roses,  if  ever  one  was.  The  flowers  themselves,  when 
he  was  born  —  or  so  the  old  biography  would  have  us 
think — knew  that  he  was  come  to  be  their  poet.  "  The 
day  of  his  birth,"  says  Binet,  "had  like  to  have  been 
that  of  his  burial ;  for,  as  he  was  carried  to  be  baptized, 
she  that  carried  him,  while  crossing  a  field,  dropped  him 
unwittingly.  But  on  tender  grass  and  on  flowers  he  fell, 
that  received  him  the  more  softly." 

Loys  de  Ronsard,  the  poet's  father,  was  a  man  of 
some  importance,  Knight  of  the  Order  of  St.  Michael, 
and  Maitre  d' Hotel  to  Francis  I.  He  was  chosen,  after 
the  battle  of  Pavia,  to  take  the  King's  two  sons  to  Spain 
as  hostages,  and  obtain  their  father's  release  ;  and  he 
was  employed  on  other  missions  of  trust.  He  was  some- 
thing of  a  poet,  too,  at  odd  moments  ;  that  is,  he  could 
write  fair  verse  in  Marot's  vein.  But  he  was  a  gentle- 


man  of  the  old  school,  untouched  by  the  Renaissance 
idea  of  the  nobility  of  poetry  ;  and  he  would  not  let  a  son 
of  his  take  such  trifling  seriously.  In  the  "  Epistle  to 
Pierre  Lescot,"  which  is  a  sort  of  autobiography,  Ron- 
sard  tells  us  :  — 

Often  my  father  scolded  me,  and  said : 
(f  Why  waste  thy  days,  poor  fool,  and  tire  "hy  head, 
Courting  Apollo  and  the  Muses  nine  ! 
What  shalt  thou  gain  from  all  thy  friends  divine, 
Save  but  a  lyre,  a  bow,  a  string,  a  song 
That  like  to  smoke  is  quickly  lost,  along 
The  wind,  and  like  the  dust  in  air  dispersed" 

So  the  wise  father  admonishes,  bidding  him 

"  Leave  this  poor  trade  that  ne*  er  advanced  a  man, 
Even  the  most  skilful "... 

nor  ever  even  fed  him,  he  adds  —  witness  your  Homer 
himself,  who  "  had  never  a  red  "  (n'eut  jamais  un 
Hard)  :  — 

"His  Muse,  whose  voice,  men  say,  was  passing  sweet, 
Could  never  feed  him,  and  in  hunger  sore 
He  begged  his  wretched  bread  from  door  to  door." 

Be  a  lawyer,  advises  the  father  :  then  you  can 
"  Talk  all  you  please,  at  some  poor  man*  s  expense  " 

Or  embrace  the  "  moneyed  skill  "  of  Medicine,  that 
other  daughter  of  Apollo  to  whom  he  gave  all  goods  and 
honors,  leaving  her  sister  Poetry  only  a  « '  musty  lyre. ' ' 
Or  best  of  all  be  courtier  and  soldier  ;  for  the  king  is 
quick  to  reward  those  who  serve  him  in  war.  In  short, 
be  anything  save  poet  !  But,  says  Ronsard :  — 


How  hard  it  is  to  change  our  nature1  s  bent ! 
For  threats  or  prayers  or  courteous  argument 
I  could  not  banish  verses  from  my  head — 
My  love  of  song  grew  more,  the  more  he  said.  .  .  . 
Scarce  twelve  years  old,  hid  in  the  valleys  deep, 
Or  far  from  men,  on  wooded  hill-sides  steep, 
I  wandered  careless  of  all  else  but  verse, 
And  answering  Echo  would  my  songs  rehearse. 
Fauns,  Satyrs,  Pans,  Dryad  and  Oread, 
About  me  danced,  in  clasped  tunics  clad, 
And  leaping  &gipans  with  horned  head, 
And  gentle  troops  of  fairies  fancy-bred. 

It  is  a  pretty  picture  of  the  poet-boy,  for  whom  all  na- 
ture is  alive  with  comradeship  ;  and  reminds  us  a  little 
of  the  boy  Shelley. 

No  wonder  he  pined  when  he  was  shut  up  in  a  col- 
lege, under  a  pedantic  master.  After  six  months'  trial, 
in  which  he  "  got  no  good,"  as  he  says,  his  father  let 
him  come  jiome  ;  and  later  took  him  to  court  and  gave 
him  as  page  to  the  Dauphin  of  France.  This  plan 
worked  better,  for  Ronsard  was  a  born  courtier  as  well 
as  passionate  nature-lover  and  poet.  The  Dauphin  died 
soon  after,  and  Ronsard  was  then  attached  to  the  suite 
of  James  of  Scotland,  who  had  come  to  marry  Made- 
leine, the  daughter  of  King  Francis  ;  and  with  him  went 
to  Scotland,  spending  nearly  three  years  at  the  court 
there,  and  six  months  in  England  on  his  way  back  to 
France.  Again  a  page  in  the  royal  family,  he  was  sent 
to  travel  with  several  diplomatic  missions  :  to  Holland, 
to  Scotland  again,  to  Piedmont,  to  Germany,  He  was  a 
favorite  of  King  Francis,  and  especially  of  his  son  Henry, 
xii 


who  was  to  be  King  Henry  II.,  and  who  loved  him 
most  for  his  athletic  prowess,  and  ' '  would  never  play 
a  match  but  with  Ronsard  on  his  side.'* 

Thus  the  wishes  of  his  father  bade  fair  to  be  fulfilled 
—  in  fact,  success  at  court  was  assured  —  when  a  fever 
caught  in  Germany  brought  on  partial  deafness,  and 
unfitted  him  for  the  life  of  a  courtier  —  "  who  should 
be  dumb  rather  than  deaf,"  suggests  Ronsard.  So  he 
gave  up  his  career  ;  happy,  it  may  be,  to  have  this  good 
excuse  for  not  "  succeeding  in  life,"  and  for  listening 
no  more  to  the  babble  of  court  ambitions,  but  to  the 
" inner  voices." 

Nature  had  taught  him.  The  life  of  the  world  had 
taught  him.  Now,  reversing  the  usual  order,  books  were 
to  teach  him  last.  He  had  acquired  a  taste  for  ancient 
learning  at  the  courts  of  France  and  of  Scotland,  where 
the  Renaissance  was  in  the  air.  His  trip  to  Germany 
had  been  made  in  the  company  of  Lazare  de  Baif,  that 
noble  humanist  who,  when  ambassador  to  Venice,  left 
his  post  and  travelled  over  the  mountains  to  Rome,  to 
attend  the  courses  of  a  Greek  professor  there.  Ron- 
sard was  full  of  the  Renaissance  enthusiasm  for  the  clas- 
sics, but  he  knew  as  yet  only  the  modern  languages. 
So  this  boy  of  eighteen,  who  was  already  a  travelled 
man  of  the  world,  set  himself  to  school  again,  and  shut 
himself  up  in  the  College  Coqueret  to  begin  the  work  of 
boys  of  ten  or  twelve.  And  there  he  worked  for  seven 
years. 

It  was  no  ordinary  college,  this  College  Coqueret  in 
the  heart  of  the  old  Latin  Quarter.  And  its  master  was 
no  ordinary  pedant,  but  a  poet  himself —  in  Latin  and 
Greek  only,  of  course,  but  still  no  scorner  of  poetry  in 


the  vulgar  tongue.  Here  gathered  the  "Brigade,"  as 
it  was  called  before  it  knew  itself  for  a  new  constella- 
tion of  stars  shining  in  the  new  heavens,  and  took  the 
more  pretentious  name  of  " the  Pleiades. ' '  Beside  Ron- 
sard,  the  most  important  members  of  the  group  were 
D'Aurat,  their  teacher  or  rather  leader  in  learning  — 
older,  of  course,  but  still  their  comrade  ;  Jean  Antoine 
de  Baif,  the  son  of  Lazare  de  Baif,  who,  though  eight 
years  younger  than  Ronsard,  could  at  first  help  him  with 
his  Greek ;  and  Joachim  du  Bellay,  whom  Ronsard  had 
met  on  a  journey,  at  an  inn  ;  they  had  talked  together 
of  the  new  dawn,  had  liked  each  other,  and  Du  Bellay 
had  come  to  live  with  Ronsard  at  the  college.  This 
little  group  of  comrades  was  the  very  centre  and  hotbed 
of  the  Renaissance  in  France.  They  set  themselves  with 
passionate  industry  to  acquiring  the  new  knowledge, 
D'Aurat  leading  them  on.  When  it  was  time  to  ap- 
proach the  difficulties  of  ^Eschylus,  which  hardly  a  man 
in  France  had  yet  attacked,  he  called  Ronsard  one  day 
and  read  him  "at  a  breath  "  the  "  Prometheus  Bound," 
"to  give  him,"  as  the  old  biography  says,  "  the  more 
eager  taste  for  this  new  knowledge  that  had  as  yet  not 
passed  the  seas  to  come  to  France. ' J  And  Ronsard  ex- 
claimed, we  can  hear  with  what  passionate  enthusiasm, 
"  My  master,  my  master,  why  have  you  so  long  hid- 
den these  riches  from  me  !  "  Greek,  alas  !  is  hardly 
studied  thus  in  our  colleges  to-day.  "  With  what  desire 
and  noble  emulation,"  says  Binet,  "did  they  toil  to- 
gether ! .  .  .  Ronsard,  who  had  spent  his  youth  in  courts, 
being  accustomed  to  watch  late,  studied  until  two  or 
three  o'clock  past  midnight ;  and  then  going  to  his  bed, 
woke  Baif,  who  rose  and  took  the  candle,  and  did  not  let 


the  place  grow  cold."  That  pictures  the  spirit  of  the 
Renaissance  —  studying  by  relays,  as  it  were.  We  have 
another  such  picture  in  Ronsard's  sonnet  "  To  His 
Valet,"  demanding  three  days  of  quiet  to  read  the  Iliad 
through.  As  Sainte-Beuve  says,  most  of  the  Renaissance 
is  in  this  sonnet  —  its  devouring  passion  of  study,  its  de- 
votion to  the  classics,  its  home-like  familiarity  with  the 
Olympian  Gods,  its  love  of  revel,  and  its  love  of  love ; 
the  last  being  strongest  of  all,  its  claim  superseding  all 
others.  This  sonnet  shows,  too,  how  their  devotion  to 
study,  passionate  as  it  was,  did  not  shut  out  life  and  love. 
It  was  in  these  years  that  Ronsard,  "  following  the  court 
to  Blois  "  (for  these  students,  all  noble  gentlemen,  some- 
times returned  to  court)  first  saw  his  Cassandra.  Nor 
did  books  shut  out  nature,  or  comradeship.  Many  were 
the  excursions  to  wood  and  field,  and  many  the  open-air 
revels,  that  these  boon  companions  of  the  College  Co- 
queret  had  in  those  years  when  they  were  turning  by 
night  and  by  day,  as  Horace  recommends,  the  leaves  of 
ancient  learning.  "  Summer's  Idlesse,"  the  "  Comrade 
Song,"  "Wine  and  Death,"  and  "The  Praise  of 
Roses ' '  give  us  some  conception  of  their  comrade-spirit. 
There  are  many  songs  like  these,  among  the  verses  of  the 
Plei'ade  ;  but  not  in  all  their  works,  I  think,  is  there  a 
single  tavern-song,  such  as  are  so  common  at  most  other 
periods  from  Villon  to  Verlaine. 

In  the  mean  time  there  were  serious  talks,  and  high 
plans  made  —  plans  to  enrich  their  own  language  with 
a  literature  that  should  rival  in  splendor  those  of  old. 
The  noblest  thing  about  this  group  of  scholars  and  wor- 
shippers of  past  beauty  is  their  belief  in  their  own  lan- 
guage and  their  own  new  country,  in  which  nothing  had 


yet  been  achieved.  A  hundred  and  fifty  years  before  the 
"  Querelle  des  anciens  et  des  modernes,"  more  than 
a  hundred  years  before  Racine,  and  fifty  years  before 
Shakspere  —  when  modern  literatures,  except  in  Italy, 
had  not  yet  begun  to  be — a  mind  in  love  with  the  beau- 
tiful necessarily  found  its  ideal  in  the  completed  and 
perfected  literatures  of  the  past.  When  almost  every 
scholar  or  man  of  letters  who  felt  that  he  had  anything 
of  real  importance  to  say,  or  anything  worth  preserva- 
tion as  literature  to  express,  thought  he  must  put  it  in 
Latin,  and  when  rhyme  was  considered  a  mere  amuse- 
ment of  the  vulgar,  it  took  faith  for  these  students  to  be- 
lieve that  literature  was  possible  in  their  own  tongue,  and 
courage  to  attempt  to  create  it.  The  men  of  the  Pleiade 
had  this  faith  and  courage,  and  that  is  their  glory.  They 
fear  not  to  launch  their  manifesto,  proudly  proclaiming 
what  can  and  shall  be  done,  even  before  it  is  begun ;  and 
they  call  it  "The  Defending  and  the  Making  Illustri- 
ous of  the  French  Language." 

Written  by  Du  Bellay,  this  "Defense  et  Illustration" 
expresses  the  ideas  of  the  whole  group,  as  shaped  chiefly 
by  Ronsard,  who  was  now  their  recognized  leader.  In 
fact,  no  better  summary  of  its  doctrines  could  be  made 
than  is  found  in  these  few  phrases  of  Ronsard' s  in  the 
Preface  of  the  "  Franciade  :  "  "I  counsel  thee  then  to 
learn  diligently  the  Greek  and  Latin  languages,  nay  also 
the  Italian  and  Spanish  ;  and  then,  when  thou  knowest 
these  perfectly,  come  back  like  a  good  soldier  to  thine 
own  flag,  and  compose  in  thy  mother-tongue,  as  did 
Homer,  Hesiod,  Aristotle,  Theophrastus,  Virgil,  Livy, 
Sallust,  Lucretius,  and  a  thousand  others,  who  all  spoke 
the  same  language  as  the  ploughmen  and  servants  of  their 


day.  For  it  is  the  crime  of  lese-majesty,  to  abandon  the 
language  of  thine  own  country,  which  is  alive  and  blos- 
soming, and  seek  to  dig  up  I  know  not  what  dead  ashes 
of  the  ancients.  ...  I  beseech  those  of  you,  to  whom 
the  Muses  have  granted  their  favor,  that  you  no  more 
Latinize  and  Grecanize  (as  some  do,  more  for  display 
than  duty)  but  take  pity  on  your  poor  mother- tongue. 
.  .  .  For  it  is  a  far  greater  thing  to  write  in  a  language 
that  flourished!  to-day  and  is  even  now  received  of 
peoples,  towns,  cities,  and  states,  being  alive  and  native 
to  them,  and  approved  by  kings,  princes,  senators,  mer- 
chants, and  traffickers  over-seas,  than  to  compose  in  a 
language  dead  and  mute,  buried  beneath  the  silence  of 
so  long  space  of  years,  which  is  learned  no  more  save 
at  school  by  the  master's  whip  and  the  reading  of  books. 
...  It  were  better,  like  a  good  citizen  of  thine  own 
country,  to  toil  at  a  lexicon  of  the  old  words  of  Arthur, 
Lancelot,  and  Gawain,  or  a  learned  commentary  of  the 
Romaunt  of  the  Rose.  .  .  .  For  we  speak  no  more  be- 
fore Roman  senators.  .  .  .  One  language  dies  and  an- 
other springeth  from  it  alive,  even  as  it  pleases  the  decree 
of  Fate  and  the  command  of  God,  who  will  not  suffer 
mortal  things  to  be  eternal  as  He  is  —  and  to  whom  I 
humbly  pray,  gentle  reader,  that  He  both  give  thee  His 
Grace,  and  the  Desire  to  enrich  the  language  of  thine 
own  country." 

These  are  the  chief  ideas  of  the  "  Defense  ;  "  it  bids 
the  poet  first  to  "bury  himself"  in  the  best  authors, 
chiefly  the  Greek,  and  "  devour  them,  digest  them, 
make  them  bone  of  his  bone  and  flesh  of  his  flesh." 
Then,  choosing  national  subjects,  and  using  his  own 
native  speech,  let  him  produce  as  the  ancients  did,  and 

xvii 


as  the  Italians  have  done,  new  poetry  to  the  glory  of 
his  nation.  "  Up,  then,  Frenchmen  !  march  boldly 
upon  that  haughty  Roman  city  ;  and  with  its  spoil  adorn 
your  own  temples  and  altars.  .  .  .  Invade  mendacious 
Greece  .  .  .  and  sack  the  sacred  treasures  of  the  Del- 
phic temple  !  Fear  no  more  the  mute  Apollo,  nor  his 
false  oracles,  nor  his  blunted  arrows  !  "  You  can  see 
Du  Bellay  stand,  like  the  Herald-at-Arms  in  a  Renais- 
sance painting,  and  hear  him  call  in  trumpet-tone  to  all, 
that  they  rally  to  this  new  army  for  the  Defending  and 
Making  Glorious  of  France  and  the  French  tongue. 

The  "  Defense  "  appeared  in  i  549,  and  marks  the 
beginning  of  modern  French  literature.  Then,  carrying 
out  the  program,  there  came  quickly,  one  upon  another, 
the  works  of  the  school.  Ronsard's  first  four  books  of 
"Odes,"  containing  all  the  "Pindaric"  odes,  appeared 
in  1550  ;  his  "Amours,"  and  a  fifth  book  of  odes  in 
1552.  Before  1 560  there  were  six  other  editions  of  the 
"Amours,  "each  enlarged,  and  three  of  the  Odes,  beside 
no  less  than  twenty  new  poems  or  collections,  including 
the  first  book  of  the  "Hymns"  (extended  mythological 
poems  like  the  "Homeric  Hymns,"  and  also  allegori- 
cal and  philosophical  poems)  in  1555,  and  the  second 
book  in  1556.  A  collected  edition  of  his  works  was 
published  in  1560,  and  included  for  the  first  time  the 
first  five  books  of  the  "  Poems,"  the  sixth  and  seventh 
of  which  appeared  in  1569.  In  1562  and  1563  came 
the  "Discours  "  and  the  "Remonstrance  au  Peuple  de 
France,"  in  1564  the  "Epistles,"  in  1565  the  "Ele- 
gies "  and  the  "  Art  of  Poetry,"  and  in  1 572  the  first 
four  books  of  his  epic,  the  "  Franciade." 

No  other  poet  made  any  such  broad  attempt  as  is 
xviii 


represented  in  this  mass  of  work,  to  reproduce  in  a  mod- 
ern vulgar  tongue  all  the  forms  of  the  classic  literatures. 
Ronsard  tried  to  create  for  France,  in  French,  the  Elegy, 
the  Eclogue,  the  "Hymn,"  the  Horatian  Ode,  the  great 
Pindaric  Ode  in  all  its  sweep  and  fulness,  the  light  Ana- 
creontic, the  Epigram,  the  Inscription,  the  Idyl,  the 
higher  Satire,  the  Epic.  If  he  omitted  one  of  the  great 
forms,  the  drama —  and  he  did  not  omit  it  entirely,  for 
in  his  earliest  days  of  writing  he  made  an  adaptation  of 
the  "Ploutos"  of  Aristophanes  which  was  played  at  the 
College  Coqueret,  and  was  the  first  French  comedy  — 
it  was  because  some  of  his  disciples,  notably  Jodelle,  were 
working  under  him  in  that  field,  leaving  him  the  higher 
and  harder  forms  (as  they  were  then  considered)  of  the 
Pindaric  ode  and  the  epic.  Perhaps,  too,  it  was  because 
in  that  early  attempt  of  the  "Ploutos"  he  had  recognized 
that  the  drama,  being  subject  to  material  conditions  from 
which  the  other  forms  of  poetry  are  free,  could  not  yet 
exist  in  France.  It  was  a  question  not  of  writing  dramas, 
but  of  creating  the  theatre ;  and  it  took  nearly  a  century 
more  to  do  this.  In  all  the  other  forms  of  poetry,  from 
the  lightest  to  the  highest,  his  attempt  was  notable ;  and 
the  few  in  which  his  achievement  was  less  so  were,  with 
the  exception  of  the  epic,  forms  in  which  no  modern 
poet  has  achieved  success. 

On  this  side,  then,  he  is  the  representative  poet  of 
the  Renaissance.  And  this  is  really  its  most  important 
side — not  the  digging  up  of  a  dead  past,  but  the  birth  of 
a  new  world  and  a  new  art  from  the  buried  old.  The 
true  significance  of  the  Renaissance  lies  in  the  true  mean- 
ing of  the  word,  which  is  not  resurrection  but  re-birth. 
As  Goethe  symbolizes  it  in  the  child  of  Faust  and  Helen, 


the  Renaissance  had  the  mediaeval  for  its  father  and  the 
classical  for  its  mother,  but  it  was  not  a  reproduction  or 
a  resurrection  of  either,  it  was  the  offspring  of  both, 
and  was  a  new  birth,  a  new  age,  a  new  art  —  the  begin- 
ning of  the  modern,  even  more  than  the  revival  of  the 
ancient.  Ronsard  loved  the  mediaeval,  while  so  many 
smaller  men  of  the  Renaissance  despised  it ;  he  knew  the 
old  romances, the  "Roman  de  la  Rose" in  both  its  parts, 
and  the  lyric  poets  down  to  Marot ;  but  he  worshipped 
above  all  the  newly  discovered  treasures  of  old  Greece 
and  Rome,  as  any  true  man  of  the  Renaissance  must. 
He  knew  not  only  the  Latin  writers  but  the  Greek 
directly,  in  fact,  he  learned  Greek  before  he  did  Latin ; 
and  he  knew  not  only  the  easier  Greek  authors  but  the 
more  difficult,  and  attached  himself  by  preference,  at 
least  during  the  earlier  part  of  his  work,  to  the  three  most 
difficult  of  all,  ^Eschylus,  Aristophanes,  and  in  chief 
Pindar,  rivalling  the  most  enthusiastic  humanists  in  the 
passion  of  his  scholarship.  Thus  he  represents  the  Re- 
naissance in  its  double  origin.  He  represents  it,  too,  in 
the  freshness  and  richness  of  its  young  life  in  Europe's 
Spring-time  ;  in  its  intensity  of  life,  and  its  tense  real- 
ization of  life's  bitter  briefness  ;  in  its  passionate  worship 
of  Poetry  and  Beauty ;  and  in  its  strange  sincere  mingling 
of  Pagan  thought  and  emotion  and  conduct  with  Chris- 
tian belief.  But  it  is  by  the  attempt  to  create  in  his 
modern  tongue  a  complete  new  literature,  that  should 
have  all  the  glories  of  the  old  literatures  in  all  their 
forms  and  aspects,  that  he  represents  it  best,  and  is  its 
poet. 

He  was  so  recognized  at  once.    Coming  at  the  very 
height  of  the  Renaissance  movement  and  in  the  central 


nation  of  Europe,  he  was  hailed  by  all  Europe  as  its 
"Apollo"  and  its  "Prince  of  Poets."  The  slight  op- 
position which  the  court  poets  of  the  older  schools  could 
make  to  his  success  was  quickly  swept  away  before  him ; 
and  as  one  work  succeeded  another,  the  success  was 
transformed  into  a  triumph.  He  was  the  favorite  and 
friend  of  six  successive  kings  of  France,  from  Francis  I., 
the  first  Renaissance  king,  to  Henry  IV.,  whose  birth  and 
marriage  he  celebrated,  and  whose  accession  he  looked 
forward  to  and  longed  for,  as  the  only  hope  of  peace  for 
France.  Queens  and  princesses  the  most  powerful  and 
beautiful  of  their  time  vied  with  each  other  to  be  his  pa- 
tronesses :  from  Catherine  of  the  Medici  to  Elizabeth  of 
England,  who  once  sent  him  a  great  diamond  in  token 
of  her  esteem  ;  from  Marguerite  of  Savoy,  the  daughter 
of  King  Francis  (not  that  other  Marguerite,  King  Fran- 
cis' sister,  who  was  Marot's  friend)  — the  type  of  all 
that  was  sweet  and  pure  and  noble  in  the  women  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  in  short,  of  perfect  goodness,  united 
in  rare  combination  with  brilliance  and  beauty,  who 
was  his  champion  at  court  in  the  early  quarrels,  and  his 
lifelong  friend  —  to  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  the  bright 
star  of  his  inspiration  in  her  brief  reign  as  Queen  of 
France,  the  subject  of  many  of  his  most  beautiful  poems 
and  of  one  of  his  noblest  sonnets,  to  whom  in  her  captiv- 
ity his  volumes  were  dedicated,  who  sent  him  out  of  her 
poverty  rich  gifts  inscribed  "To  Ronsard,  the  Apollo 
of  the  Muses'  fountain,"  and  who  said  of  him  on  her 
last  day  of  life  (at  least  so  our  own  poet  Swinburne 
makes  her  say,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  we  should 
disbelieve  him)  :  — 


xxi 


"  Ah  !  how  sweet 

Sang  all  the  world  about  those  stars  that  sang 
With  Ronsard  for  the  strong  mid  star  of  all, 
His  bay-bound  head  all  glorious  with  grey  hairs, 
Who  sang  my  birth  and  bridal.3' 

The  Kings  and  Princes  of  the  realm  of  poetry  recognized 
him  likewise  as  their  chief,  from  his  followers  Du  Bel- 
lay,  Jodelle,  Garnier,  and  the  rest,  to  his  rivals  like 
Saint-Gelais ;  scholars  lauded  him  in  Latin  verse,  and 
in  Greek,  and  in  the  lesser  languages,  from  his  own 
master  D'Aurat  to  those  of  distant  nations.  One,  Saint- 
Marthe,  called  him  «'  the  prodigy  of  nature  and  the 
miracle  of  art."  Tasso  came  and  sat  at  his  feet  to  learn, 
submitting  to  him  the  first  cantos  of  the  "Jerusalem 
Delivered. ' '  And  Montaigne  said  in  one  of  his  Essays, 
that  "in  the  parts  of  his  work  in  which  he  excelled, 
he  hardly  fell  short  of  the  perfection  of  the  ancients." 
There  was  no  higher  praise  that  a  poet  of  the  Renais- 
sance could  receive. 

Yet  all  this  did  not  spoil  him.  He  was  proud  indeed. 
That  he  had  always  been.  It  was  born  in  his  race.  He 
even  believed  himself  the  chief  of  all  poets  of  his  time 
and  country  —  as  in  truth  he  was.  He  believed,  too, 
that  he  was  the  first  to  give  to  his  country  something  that 
could  be  called  poetry  by  those  who  knew  also  the  lit- 
eratures of  the  past  and  of  Italy ;  he  boasted  that  he  first 
' '  Pindarized  "  and  "  Petrarquized '  '  in  France.  He  held 
himself  aloof  from  the  "common  crowd,"  like  Horace, 
and  boasted  the  consecration  of  the  Muse's  kiss.  He 
thought  himself  a  poet,  in  short  —  and  he  thought  that 
in  this  world  there  is  no  higher  thing  than  to  be  a  true 
xxii 


poet.  But  just  because  he  knew  how  high  a  thing  it  is 
to  be  a  true  poet,  and  because  he  truly  knew  the  great 
poets  of  the  past,  he  was  humble  too.  He  felt  some- 
times that  among  the  poets  of  all  time  he  was  one  of  the 
least,  and  one  most  dependent  upon  others.  He  even 
called  himself  but  a  half-poet.  He  made  his  Franciade 
kneel  before  the  ^Eneid  and  Iliad,  and  worship  them  — 
as  it  ought.  Then,  too,  there  was  another  saving  grace 
in  his  proud  and  contradictory  and  charming  personal- 
ity. The  favorite  of  courts  was  a  recluse ;  the  singer 
of  princes  was  a  lover  of  nature  (how  different  in  this 
from  all  the  courtier-poets  of  two  following  centuries  !)  ; 
and  the  owner  of  abbeys  and  chateaux  (for  material 
success  had  come  too)  was  a  gardener  —  he  must  cul- 
tivate his  roses,  yes,  and  his  cabbages,  with  his  own 
hands;  and  he  must  wander  alone  through  his  woods 
and  on  his  hill-sides,  communing  with  a  book  created  by 
one  "greater  than  he,"  or  with  Nature  herself,  "cre- 
ated by  One  greater  still." 

Only  of  one  thing  he  was  always  sure,  in  his  pride 
or  his  humility  :  that  he  had  given  to  France  a  litera- 
ture new  and  greater  than  she  had  had  before  —  which 
was  true ;  and  that  therefore  his  name  and  fame  could 
never  die  —  and  no  poet's  hope  of  continuous  immor- 
tality was  ever  so' completely  disappointed.  The  story 
of  Ronsard's  reputation  is  perhaps  the  most  dramatic 
contrast  in  all  the  history  of  literary  fame  and  oblivion. 
There  were  many  splendid  editions  of  his  works,  till 
1623,  and  a  poor  one  in  1629;  then,  for  two  hundred 
years,  silence  ;  not  an  edition  ;  not  even  a  volume  of 
extracts. 

Why  ?  .  .  .  Because  Malherbe  had  come,  and  im- 


posed  new  ideals  upon  literature.  There  was  to  be  no 
more  freedom,  no  more  nature,  no  more  freshness  of 
life,  but  only  perfect  regularity  of  form,  and  wonderful 
analysis  and  picturing  of  human  emotions  such  as  they 
might  appear  in  the  dress  of  court  and  town.  Symmetry 
was  substituted  for  harmony  in  the  structure  of  verse, 
eloquence  was  substituted  for  lyrism  in  its  substance.  A 
noble  eloquence  indeed  it -was  —  not  merely  rhetorical, 
as  it  often  seems  to  the  narrow  Anglo-Saxon  taste,  in- 
capable of  appreciating  French  classic  literature  —  and 
it  produced  high  and  beautiful  and  truly  poetic  work. 
But  it  struck  dumb  all  singing ;  and  the  silence  lasted  till 
Chenier  and  Lamartine,  Berenger,  Musset,  and  Victor 
Hugo.  Malherbe  one  day  took  a  copy  of  Ronsard,  and 
crossed  out  the  lines  which  struck  him  as  the  worst.  An- 
other day  he  crossed  out  the  few  that  were  left.  Balzac 
—  the  Balzac  of  the  seventeenth  century,  Balzac  the 
little,  not  Balzac  the  great  —  in  one  of  those  carefully 
polished  "Letters'*  that  delighted  the  Hotel  de  Ram- 
bouillet,  wrote  to  Chapelain  the  prosy  :  "  Monsieur  de 
Malherbe,  and  Monsieur  de  Grasse,  and  yourself,  must 
be  very  little  poets,  if  Ronsard  be  a  great  one  "...  and 
knew  not  how  true  he  spoke  !  When  Boileau,  the  final 
judge  of  all  such  matters,  came,  the  question  of  Ron- 
sard' s  place  was  long  since  settled  and  forgotten.  In 
his  history  of  French  poetry  he  condemned  Ronsard 
without  a  hearing,  as  one  who  "in  French  talked  no- 
thing but  Greek  and  Latin"  (poor  Ronsard  !  the  cham- 
pion and  almost  the  creator  of  the  French  poetic  lan- 
guage !  ),  and  dismissed  him  contemptuously  as  "that 
proud  poet  fallen  from  so  high."  From  Boileau  on, 
even  the  name  was  almost  forgotten. 


Then  after  two  centuries  came  the  rehabilitation  — 
or  the  resurrection  —  of  Ronsard's  fame,  in  that  new 
Renaissance  of  poetry  which  made  glad  the  early  years 
of  the  nineteenth  century.  Sainte-Beuve  published  in 
1827  his  "Survey  of  French  Poetry  in  the  Sixteenth 
Century,"  and  supplemented  it  in  the  following  year 
with  a  volume  of  selections  from  Ronsard.  The  old  edi- 
tions were  exhumed  from  the  dust  of  libraries.  Finally  a 
new  complete  edition  was  undertaken  in  1 8  5  7  by  Prosper 
Blanchemain,  and  finished  in  1867.  To  its  last  volume 
almost  all  the  younger  poets  of  importance  contributed 
in  verse  their  homage  to  Ronsard,  as  Sainte-Beuve  had 
already  contributed  his.  More  recently  a  complete  edi- 
tion of  all  the  poets  of  the  Pleiade  has  been  published, 
under  the  editorship  of  Marty-Laveaux.  There  are  also 
many  books  of  selections.  In  short,  the  poetry  and  the 
fame  of  Ronsard  and  the  Pleiade  are  now  alive  again. 

Of  course  not  all  of  Ronsard's  work  has  been  restored 
to  real  life.  "  No  man,"  said  Voltaire,  looking  ruefully 
at  his  fifty  volumes,  "  can  take  the  long  journey  to  pos- 
terity encumbered  with  all  that  baggage."  No  poet, 
except  the  very  greatest,  can  carry  more  than  one  sub- 
stantial tome  on  that  long  journey.  In  Ronsard's  work 
there  is  enough  that  deserves  to  survive  to  make  one  fair- 
sized  volume.  It  would  include,  not  any  of  his  epic  — 
that  is  a  failure  ;  probably  none  of  the  eclogues  —  they 
are  of  the  artificial  pastoral  type,  full  of  contemporary 
interest  because  they  usually  present  noble  or  famous 
personages  of  his  own  day  disguised  as  shepherds  and 
shepherdesses,  and  possessing  touches,  but  too  rare,  of 
genuine  nature-poetry  ;  possibly  none  of  the  Pindaric 
odes,  though  it  is  hard  to  give  this  verdict  —  we  should 


surely  include,  for  instance,  if  it  were  only  one  tenth  its 
length,  that  noble  ode  on  the  Progress  of  Poetry  which 
was  so  famous  in  its  day,  and  which  deserves,  for  the 
scholar's  reading,  to  be  placed  beside  or  even  above 
Gray's  ode  on  the  same  subject  —  but  it  is  "  too  heavy 
baggage"  for  posterity  ;  and  none  of  the  "Discours," 
alas  ! — great  as  are  their  interest  and  their  power,  noble 
as  are  their  patriotism  and  their  appeal  for  peace  and  unity 
—  they  were  creatures  of  the  time  and  died  with  it,  but 
they  set  the  standard  of  satire  and  of  national  poetry  in 
France;  but  some  of  the  elegies,  yes,  for  they  are  briefer, 
and  in  them  he  is  a  true  and  sincere  poet  of  Nature 
and  of  love  ;  some  few  pf  the  "Hymns,"  like  that 
"On  Death,"  which  Chastelard,  Brantome  tells  us, 
carried  to  the  scaffold  for  breviary,  taking  Ronsard  as 
his  only  father-confessor ;  and  a  very  few  of  the  longer 
" Poems;  "  but  most  of  all,  his  lyrics  and  sonnets  and 
lighter  odes  —  not  the  greatest  of  his  work,  but  the 
most  beautiful,  and  the  most  portable  on  that  "long 
journey." 

The  sonnets  stand  halfway  between  Petrarch  and 
Shakspere,  and  are  almost  as  anticipatory  of  the  later  poet 
as  they  are  reminiscent  of  the  earlier.  Ronsard  is  one  of 
the  few  masters  of  the  sonnet.  It  is  probably  safe  to  say 
that  he  uses  it  with  more  variety  of  effect  than  any  other 
poet,  and  yet  without  seeming  to  force  its  character.  He 
makes  it  descriptive,  epigrammatic,  epic,  philosophic, 
elegiac,  idyllic,  dramatic  ;  he  even  makes  it  purely  lyr- 
ical. Brunetiere,  a  critic  not  given  to  superlatives  nor 
wont  to  praise,  says :  "  I  know  of  no  more  beautiful  son- 
nets than  those  of  Ronsard."  The  statement  surprises, 
but  can  it  be  refuted  ?  Grander  there  are,  in  Milton  and 


Wordsworth;  nobler,  perhaps,  from  Dante  to  Petrarch; 
more  wonderful  in  perfection  of  form  and  in  power  of 
condensation  or  suggestiveness,  among  Heredia's;  but 
more  beautiful,  no  —  though  we  may  perhaps  put  with 
the  best  of  Ronsard's  some  few  of  Keats'.  Keats,  once 
in  his  brief  life,  made  a  translation ;  and  it  was  from  a 
sonnet  of  Ronsard's. 

Then  there  are  the  lyrics  —  lyrics  that  have  almost 
the  cutting  pathos  of  the  Greek  regrets  for  fleeting  youth 
and  life,  or  the  light  sincerity  of  Herrick,  or  even 
snatches  of  that  peculiar  grace  and  haunting  naturalness 
of  exquisite  melody  which  give  to  our  early  Elizabethans 
the  sweetest  note  in  all  the  gamut  of  song.  Ronsard's 
mastery  of  form,  in  an  almost  unformed  language,  is 
marvellous.  He  was  the  first  creator  of  more  than  a 
hundred  different  lyric  stanzas  —  the  most  prolific  in- 
ventor of  rhythms,  perhaps,  in  the  history  of  poetry.  He 
ranges  from  the  great  ten-line  stanza,  a  favorite  of  Vic- 
tor Hugo's,  to  the  so-called  "  Hawthorn-tree  "  metre, 
which,  difficult  as  it  apparently  is  with  its  quick-return- 
ing rhymes  that  dart  in  and  out  like  squirrels  at  play  and 
respond  to  each  other  like  answering  bird-notes,  never 
even  in  a  long  poem  like  the  "Spring  Love-Song  " 
seems  for  a  moment,  as  Ronsard  uses  it,  to  interrupt  or 
hamper  or  turn  aside  the  movement  of  the  thought. 

The  three  great  lyric  themes,  nature,  and  love,  and 
death,  are  never  long  absent  from  his  work,  and  usually 
they  are  interwoven  with  each  other  in  it.  He  is  more 
a  poet  of  nature  than  any  other  French  poet  save  La- 
martine.  Unlike  Lamartine,  he  seeks  in  nature  not  a 
refuge  from  life,  but  a  living  comradeship.  Unlike 
Wordsworth,  he  is  not  so  much  the  observer  and  inter- 


preter  of  nature  as  its  passionate  lover.  All  nature  is 
alive  to  him,  even  as  it  was  to  the  Greeks,  and  as  it  has 
been  to  no  other  modern  except,  at  moments,  to  Shel- 
ley. His  nature-mythology  is  less  of  the  mind,  like  that  of 
most  moderns,  or  even  of  the  imagination,  like  Shelley's, 
than  of  the  heart.  His  love-poetry  in  particular  is  per- 
meated with  nearness  to  nature  and  her  spirit. 

Of  love  Ronsard  has  sung  in  all  its  phases,  from  the 
simplest  human  passion  to  the  philosophic  love  of  Dante 
and  the  Platonists,  the  shaping  power  of  the  universe 
and  of  man's  soul,  the 

"  Love  that  moves  the  sun  and  the  other  stars," 

which  he  celebrates,  without  quite  believing  in  it,  in 
"  Love's  Quickening  "  and  other  sonnets.  If  his  ex- 
pression of  love,  with  all  its  "  burnings  "  and  "  freez- 
ings," sometimes  seem  insincere,  it  is  to  be  remembered 
that  he  was  speaking  the  dialect  of  his  time,  a  dialect 
that  to  us  seems  artificial,  and  to  a  certain  extent,  but 
far  less  than  we  think,  was  so.  Every  age  that  has  a 
character  has  its  dialect  —  and  we  can  hardly  assert 
that  we  have  a  nobler  one  than  that  of  the  Renaissance. 
Often,  too,  Ronsard  speaks  the  universal  language,  which 
is  absolute  simplicity.  But  even  the  touches  of  artifi- 
ciality grow  to  seem  sincere,  and  only  add  to  the  charm 
of  these  old-world  loves  of  the  golden  Renaissance  : 
the  love  of  Cassandra,  his  boyhood's  adoration,  whom 
he  first  saw  in  the  glorious  beauty  of  her  girlhood  as  the 
Nymph  of  the  meadow  of  Blois,  — 

Walking  among  the  flowers,  herself  a  flower, 

a  little  lady  of  the  court,  but  simply  clad,  and  wander- 
ing free  with  wind-blown  golden  hair  —  Cassandre  Sal- 


viati  du  Pre  she  was,  and  in  her  veins  ran  blood  that  was 
born  of  Beatrice's  and  of  Laura's  nation,  and  was  to  be 
transmitted  through  succeeding  generations  till  it  flow- 
ered again  in  the  greatest  passion-poet  of  France,  Alfred 
de  Musset ;  and  the  love  of  Marie,  the  simple  country 
girl  of  Anjou,  the  passion  of  his  ardent  youth ;  and  last  of 
Helen,  the  Lady  Helen  of  Surgeres,  whom  the  Queen- 
mother  bade  him  celebrate,  and  whom  he  grew  to  love 
with  the  complete  love  of  the  mature  man  and  poet,  and 
with  something  of  the  bitter  intensity  of  premature  old 
age  —  a  love  that  with  the  advancing  years  grew  into 
friendship.  "  Dear  dead  women,"  they  live  still  in  his 
verse. 

As  the  years,  whose  flight  he  would  so  fain  have 
stayed,  passed  by,  his  characteristic  theme  of  "  Gather 
Rose-buds  "  little  by  little  disappeared  from  his  work. 
There  came  in  its  stead  a  quiet  acceptance  of  life,  and 
of  death  as  the  completion  of  life,  that  are  classic  in  their 
simplicity  and  strength.  This  theme  too,  which  found 
its  expression  in  many  poems  like  "  Life- Philosophy  " 
and  "  Transit  Mundus,"  became  characteristic  of  Ron- 
sard  ;  and  his  treatment  of  it  is  the  more  valuable  as  it 
is  the  rarer  in  modern  literature. 

Finally,  the  noblest  of  all  his  poems  are  those  on 
Poetry  itself.  This  is  the  theme  for  which  he  cared 
the  most.  It  is  intertwined  for  him  with  each  one  of 
the  others.  Nature  is  to  him  always  the  home  of  the 
Muses.  Love  itself  is  to  him  the  impulse  to  sing,  and 
finds  its  true  consecration  in  song.  The  thought  of 
death  brings  with  it  always  the  thought  of  fame  in  liv- 
ing poetry  —  that  is  its  justification,  its  consolation,  the 
one  sure  immortality.  All  else  may  die  —  kings,  em- 


pires,  and  the  unsung  fame  of  noble  deeds  —  but,  says 
Ronsard  in  one  of  his  Pindaric  odes  :  — 

True  poetry  forever  /arts, 
Obdurate  'gainst  the  years. 

The  men  of  the  Pleiade  introduced  into  France  a  new 
conception  of  poetry.  "  Surely  't  would  be  a  thing  but 
too  easy,  and  worthy  of  all  contempt,  to  win  eternal 
fame,  "says  DuBellay  in  the  "Defense,"  "if  mere  nat- 
ural facility,  granted  even  to  the  unlearned,  might  suffice 
to  create  a  work  worthy  of  immortality.  Nay  !  —  he 
that  would  fly  abroad  upon  the  lips  of  men,  must  long 
abide  shut  fast  in  his  chamber  ;  he  that  would  live  in  the 
memory  of  posterity,  must,  as  though  dead  unto  himself, 
labor  and  oft  sweat  and  tremble  ;  and  even  as  our  court 
poets  do  drink,  eat,  and  sleep  at  their  ease,  so  much  must 
he  endure  hunger  and  thirst  and  long  watchings."  Still 
nobler  are  the  words  of  Ronsard  :  "  Above  all  things," 
he  says  in  his  "  Art  of  Poetry,"  "  thou  shalt  have  the 
Muses  in  reverence,  yea  truly  in  most  especial  venera- 
tion. Thou  shalt  never  make  them  serve  low  ends,  but 
shalt  hold  them  dear  and  holy,  as  being  the  daughters  of 
Jupiter,  that  is  to  say  of  God,  who  through  them  by  His 
sacred  grace  first  made  known  to  ignorant  peoples  the 
excellence  of  His  majesty.  .  .  .  And  since  the  Muses 
will  dwell  in  no  heart  save  it  be  true,  holy,  and  virtu- 
ous, thou  must  be  first  good,  then  open-hearted  and 
generous,  .  .  .  true  in  spirit,  letting  no  thing  enter 
into  thy  thoughts  that  is  not  super-human  and  divine. 
Above  all  let  all  thine  imaginings  be  high,  noble,  and 
beautiful."  .  .  . 

Almost  all  poets  have  worshipped  Poetry  and  the 


Muses  with  living  faith  and  fervent  self-devotion.  There 
have  been  exceptions,  like  Lamartine  and  Byron,  even 
among  the  great ;  and  they  have  been  the  lesser  poets  for 
it.  But  hardly  one  has  worshipped  and  believed  with 
the  fervor  of  Ronsard.  It  is  a  consecration  to  live  in  his 
atmosphere  of  high  devotion  to  poetry  ;  it  is  a  joy  to 
serve  him,  and  try  to  spread  a  little  the  fame  for  which 
he  cared  so  much  ;  and  to  give  him  honor  in  each  new 
age  is  a  duty.  For  this  was  his  faith  —  that  though  the 
leaf  of  the  rose  may  fade  and  fall,  the  leaf  of  the  laurel 
shall  be  ever  green. 


TH8 


YOUTH,  LOVE,  AND  POESIE 

True  Gift  Page  3 

Love's  Conquering  4 

One  only  Aim  and  Thought  5 

Lovers  Charming  6 

A  Picture  and  a  Plea  7 

Lovers  Perfect  Power  8 

Even  unto  Death  9 

Lowe's  Wounding  10 

Love's  Submission  n 

Cassandra's  Prophecy  i* 

Love"*  s  Attributes  -13 

A  Proper  Roundelay  14 

Love-Joy,  Love-Sorrow  16 

Love's  Comparings  17 

The  Ways  of  Love  18 

Madrigal  1  9 

To  /^  5^j  20 

f(  Love  me,  love  me  not''''  a  2 
xxxiii 


The  Mourning  Do<ve  23 

Love's  Quickening  24 

Low's  Healing  25 

Love  the  Teacher  and  Inspirer  26 

In  Absence  27 

Lovers  Solicitude  28 

Absence  in  Spring  29 

The  Thought  of  Death  30 

Remembered  Scenes  31 

The  Muses'"  Comforting  32 

The  Poefs  Gift  33 

LIFE,  JOT,  AND  SONG 

To  His  Valet  37 

Summer' s  Revel        .  38 

To  the  Hawthorn-tree  40 

Nenv  April  42 

The  Courtier's  Return  44 

"Marie,  arise!**  45 

Spring  Love-Song  46 

Gather  Rose-Buds  5 1 

Carpe  Diem  52 

Lovers  Lesson  54 

To  M*  %/«ryf  55 

*/  Death  59 
xxxiv 


Nature's  Drinking-Song  61 

Comrade  Song  62 

The  Praise  of  Roses  64 

THE  ROSE  OF  LOVE 

"  Sweet-heart,  come  see  if  the  Rose"  69 

Life's  Roses  70 

Lovers  Token  71 

Messenger  Nightingale  72 

Helen"  s  Beauty  74 

Kisses  and  Death  75 

#7^  Flowers  76 

11  If  this  be  Love"  77 

Love's  Accounting  78 

Lovers  Recording  79 

Love*  s  Flower  80 

/fcr  Immortality  81 


,  SCWG,  ^tfZ)  DEATH 

'  Twixt  Love  and  Death  85 

Counsel  for  Kings  86 

To  Mary  Stuart,  Queen  of  France  87 

Regret,  for  Mary  Stuarfs  Departure  88 

7fo  £z;»*  Subject  89 

/or  Mary  Stuart,  in  Captivity  92 


In  Dear  Vendbme 

To  the  Woodsman  of  Gastine 

The  Power  of  Song 

The  Poet's  Titles 

Laurets  Worth 

Life-Philosophy 

The  Happy  Life 

Farewell  to  Lo<ve 

On  Death 

Transit  Mundus 

Permanet  Gloria 

Ronsard"*  Tomb 


93 

97 
100 

IOI 

102 
I04 

106 

108 
109 

I  10 
112 


xxxvi 


TOUTH,  LOVS,  ^AND  TO  SSI  8 


TR  US  giFT 

yt  s  a  young  maiden,  in  the  morning  air 
^^    Of  Spring-time,  when  the  year  with  youth  is 

thrilled, 

goes  seeding  through  the  garden  freshly  tilled 
T^oses  and  lilies  to  adorn  her  hair, 

But  finding  not  by  any  roses  rare 

^(or  other  flowers  the  new-made  garden  filled, 
Takes  simple  ivy,  and  with  fingers  skilled 

Tresses  a  wreath  to  crown  and  make  her  fair, 

So  I —  who  in  my  orchard  find  no  roses 

^or  any  flowers  whose  worth  is  worthy  you, 
Tinks,  lavender,  pansies,  nor  marigold — 

Bring  you  this  bit  of  verse,  love-twined  and  true, 
In  hope  its  simpleness  more  worth  may  hold 
Than  heaped-up  flowers  no  thoughtful  care  dis- 
poses. 


LOVPS 


TF  '/  please  you  see  how  Love's  might  overcame, 
A    How  He  attacked  and  how  He  conquered  me, 
How  my  heart  burns  and  freezes  for  His  glee, 
How  He  doth  make  His  Honor  of  my  Shame  ; 

If*  t  please  you  see  my  youth  running  to  claim 

What  brings  it  nought  but  pain  and  contumely, 
Then  come  and  read,  and  know  the  agony 

Of  which  my  Goddess  and  my  God  make  game. 

Then  you  shall  know  that  Love  is  reasonless, 
sweet  deceit,  a  dear  imprisonment, 
empty  hope  that  feeds  us  with  the  wind. 

Then  you  shall  know  how  great  man'  s  foolishness 
<LSfnd  his  delusion  are,  when  he  *s  content 
To  choose  a  child  for  lord;  for  guide,  the  blind. 


ONS  ONL  T  <^A1M  ^AND 


"IT  THEN  Nature  formed  Cassandra,  who  should 

move 

The  hardest  hearts  with  love's  soft  passioning*, 
She  made  her  of  a  thousand  beauteous  things 

That  she  had  hoarded  like  a  treasure-trove 

For  centuries.  <^And  Love  too  interwove 

<iSfll  He  was  dearly  nesting  neath  His  wings 
Of  gentle,  to  make  honey-sweet  the  stings 

Of  her  fair  eyes,  that  even  the  Gods  must  love. 


nd  when  from  Heaven  she  was  newly  come 
<^And  first  I  saw  her,  my  poor  heart,  struck  dumb, 
Was  lost  in  love  ;  and  love,  her  minister, 


So  poured  her  charm  into  my  very  veins 

That  now  I  have  no  pleasure  but  my  pains, 
e]S(ojaim  or  knowledge  but  the  thought  of  her. 


LOVS'S  CHARMINg 

"JV/T  AID  of  fifteen,  in  childlike  beauty  dight, 
Fair  head  with  crinkled  ringlets  golden- 

tressed, 

T^ose-petalled  forehead,  cheeks  like  amethyst, 
Laughter  that  lifts  the  soul  to  Heaven's  delight  ; 


nd  neck  like  snow,  and  throat  than  milk  more 

white, 
^/fnd  heart  full-blossomed  neath  a  budding 

breast  — 

Beauty  divine  in  human  form  expressed, 
nd  virtue  worthy  of  that  beauty  bright  — 

n  eye  whose  light  can  change  the  night  to  day, 
dx^T  gentle  hand  that  smooths  away  my  care, 
Tet  holds  my  life  caught  in  its  fingers'  snare  ; 


Withal  a  voice  that  's  ever  fain  to  sing, 

Still  stopped  by  smiles,  or  sweet  sighs  languish- 

ing — 
These  are  the  spells  that  charmed  my  wits  away. 


TICTUR  S 


QOMETIMES,  your  bead  a  little  downward  bent, 
I  see  you  play  at  gossip  with  your  thought, 
Sitting  apart,  alone,  as  though  you  sought 

To  shun  the  world  and  live  in  banishment. 

Then  oft  I  would  approach,  in  dear  intent 

To  greet  you  —  but  my  voice,  straightway  dis- 

traught 
With  panic  fear,  behind  my  lips  is  caught, 

<^/fnd  silence  leaves  me  standing  shamed  and  shent. 

<»JA4ine  eyes  do  fear  to  meet  the  beams  of  thine, 

soul  doth  tremble  neath  those  rays  divine, 
(or  tongue  nor  voice  can  to  its  function  move. 


Only  my  sighs,  only  my  tear-stained  face 

t  do  their  office,  speaking  in  their  place, 
bear  sufficing  witness  of  my  love. 


LOFS'S  TET^FECT 

OUN  of  my  earthly  worship,  I  declare 
^    She  equals  him  in  Heaven  !   He  with  his  eye 
<*J\4akes  glad,  makes  warm,  makes  light  the 

spacious  sky  ; 
She  gladdens  earth  with  beauty  yet  more  rare. 


and  art,  earth,  water,  fire,  and  air, 
The  stars,  the  Graces,  and  the  Gods  on  high 
Combine  in  rivalry  to  beautify 
<z^My  Lady,  and  to  make  her  wondrous  fair. 

Thrice  happy  were  I,  had  not  Fate's  disdain 
Walled  in  with  adamantine  magnet-stone 
So  chaste  a  heart  behind  so  fair  a  face  ! 

happiest,  had  I  not  filled  every  vein 
With  fire  and  ice  —  because  my  heart  is  gone 

love  beats,  burns,  and  freezes  in  its  place. 


EVEN  UO  <DEATH 


o  think  one  thought  a  hundred  hundred  ways, 
^N^eath  two  loved  eyes  to  lay  your  heart  quite 

bare, 

To  drink  the  bitter  liquor  of  despair 
nd  eat  forever  ashes  of  lost  days  — 

In  spirit  and  flesh  to  know  youth's  bloom  decays, 
To  die  of  pain,  yet  swear  no  pain  is  there, 
The  more  you  sue,  to  move  the  less  your  fair, 

Tet  make  her  wish,  the  law  your  life  obeys  — 

<^Anger  that  passes,  faith  that  cannot  move  ; 
Far  dearer  than  yourself  your  foe  to  love  ; 
To  build  a  thousand  vain  imaginings, 

To  long  to  plead,  yet  fear  to  voice  a  breath, 
In  ruin  of  all  hope  to  hope  all  things  — 
These  are  the  signs  of  love  —  love  even  to  death. 


LO7FS  WOUND  IN  ff 

s  the  young  stag,  when  lusty  Spring  supreme 
O'er  Winter  s  biting  cold  at  last  prevails, 
"To  crop  the  honeyed  leafage  seeks  new  trails 

leaves  his  dear  retreat  at  dawn's  first  gleam  ; 


,  secure,  afar  (as  he  may  deem) 
From  bay  of  hounds,  or  hunters'  echoing  hails, 
on  the  mountain-slopes,  now  in  the  vales, 
by  the  waters  of  a  secret  stream, 


He  wantons  freely,  at  his  own  sweet  will, 
Knowing  no  fear  of  net  or  bow,  until, 
Tierced  with  one  dart,  he  lies  dead  in  his  pride  — 

Even  so  I  wandered,  with  no  thought  of  woe  y 

In  my  life's  April —  when  one  quick-drawn  bow 
'Plant ed  a  thousand  arrows  in  my  side. 


10 


LOVPS  SUBMISSION 

WHAT  though  it  please  you  light  my  heart  with 
fire 

(Heart  that  is  yours,  your  subject,  your  domain), 
With  fire  of  Furies,  not  with  Love's  sweet  pain, 
"To  waste  me  body  and  bone  till  life  expire  ! 

The  ill  that  others  deem  too  cruel-dire 

Is  sweet  to  me  —  I  will  not  once  complain, 
For  I  love  not  my  life,  nor  hold  it  fain 

Save  as  to  love  it  pleases  your  desire. 

But  yet,  if  Heaven  hath  made  me,  Lady  mine, 
To  be  your  victim,  may  it  not  suffice 
To  lay  my  loyal  service  at  your  shrine  ? 

'  Twere  better  you  should  have  my  service  meet 
Than  horror  of  a  human  sacrifice 
Stricken  and  bleeding  at  your  beauty's  feet. 


'S  TROPHSCT 


j's  frost  shall  touch  thy  temples  in  the  morn, 
Sre  evening  comes  thy  day  shall  ended  be, 
Cheated  of  hope  thy  thoughts  shall  die  with  thee, 
<2^ear  ways  shall  lead  thee  to  thy  farthest  bourn. 

"  Thy  songs,  that  move  me  not,  shall  wither,  shorn 
Of  youth's  fresh  bloom  ;  and  when  for  love  of  me 
Thy  death  has  proved  my  fated  mastery, 

^Posterity  shall  laugh  thy  sighs  to  scorn. 

"  Thy  fame  shall  be  a  by-word  in  the  land, 

Thy  work  prove  built  on  quickly-shifting  sand, 
Thy  pictures  vainly  painted  in  the  skies" 

So  prophesied  the  Nymph  I  dote  upon  ; 
When  Heaven  for  witness  to  her  malison 
With  lightning  from  the  right  struck  blind  mine 
eyes. 


LOSS'S 


rules  the  fields  of  grain, 
Cjoat-foot  Gods  the  wood; 
Phoebus  gives  the  laurel-vine^ 
'Pallas  the  olives  good^ 
Chloris  guards  the  tender  grass  in  bud  ; 

To  Cybef  s  reign 
Belongs  the  fair  lone  pine. 


sweet  fruits  that  orchards  bear 
Own  'Pomona  s  power  y 

sweet  sounds  that  stir  the  grove 

the  Zephyrs'  dower  ; 
'Nymphs  rule  the  waves,  and  Flora  every  flower  ; 
But  tears  and  care 
consecrate  to  Love. 


TROTER 


OEE  thou,  my  joy,  my  care, 

^  How  many  a  wondrous  thing 

In  me  thou  art  perfecting 
Through  beauties  beyond  co?npare  : 

So  utterly  thine'  eyes, 

Thy  laughter  and  thy  grace, 
Thy  brow,  thy  hair,  thy  face 

Fashioned  in  angel's  guise, 

^Do  burn  me,  since  the  day 
When  first  I  knew  thereof, 
Longing  with  passion  of  love 

To  win  them  in  love's  sweet  way, 

That  but  for  the  saving  tears 
<a_2[4y  life  is  bedewed  withal, 
Long  since  beyond  recall 

'Twere  wasted  by  heat  that  sears. 

<^Andyet  thy  beauteous  eyes, 
Thy  laughter  and  thy  grace, 
Thy  brow,  thy  hair,  thy  face 

Fashioned  in  angel's  guise, 
14 


So  freeze  me,  since  the  day 
When  first  I  knew  thereof, 
Longing  with  passion  of  love 

To  win  them  in  love's  sweet  way, 

That  but  for  the  saving  heat 
(•J^/y  soul  is  enflamed  withal, 
Long  since  beyond  recall 

'  T  were  wasted  through  eyes  that  greet. 

See  then,  my  joy,  my  care, 

How  many  a  wondrous  thing 
In  me  thou  art  perfecting 

Through  beauty  beyond  compare. 


LOVS-JOY,  LOVE-SORROW 

\  THOUSAND  lilies  i  a  thousand  pinks, 
**"  /  take  in  my  arms  and  clasp  them  round 
Close  as  the  loving  vine-branch  links 

The  bough  in  its  clinging  tendrils  wound. 

For  joy  has  taken  abode  with  me, 

<iSfnd  care  no  longer  turns  pale  my  face, 

I  love  all  life  —  and  if  these  things  be, 

'  T is  the  gift,  fair  dream,  of  thy  heaven-sent 
grace. 

I  could  climb  the  sky  thy  flight  to  follow  .  .  . 

But  alas  !  my  joy  lives  but  a  breath, 
For  the  fleeting  dream  is  a  vision  hollow, 

Like  clouds  in  the  wind  it  vanisheth. 


16 


LOSS'S  COMTARINgS 

/CARNATIONS  and  lilies  are  hue/ess 
^*    When  set  by  the  face  of  my  fair, 
nd  fine-woven  gold  is  but  worthless 
If  weighed  with  the  wealth  of  her  hair ; 

Through  arches  of  coral  passes 
Her  laughter  that  banisheth  care, 

^/fnd  flowers  spring  fresh  mongst  the  grasses 
Wherever  her  feet  may  fare. 


TH8  WATS  OF  LO78 

T    OVE'S  infidel 
*rf    Whom  I  adore, 
You  know  too  well 
That  I  love  you  more 
By  a  hundred  score 

Than  mine  eyes  or  heart  ! 
So  you  'd  die  before 

Ton  'd  be  called  "  sweet-heart ! 

But  if  I  could  seem 

To  set  no  store 
By  your  esteem, 

Then  you'd  love  me  more 
By  a  hundred  score 

Than  your  eyes  or  heart, 
<t/fnd  almost  implore 

To  be  called" sweet-heart  !  " 

"  '  Tis  the  way  of  love 

That  who  loves  the  best 
The  least  can  he  move 
His  Lady's  breast"  .  .  . 
,  would  I  could  test 
The  proverb's  truth 

hate  —  in  jest  — 
Till  you  loved  in  sooth  I 
18 


^T^AKE  my  heart,  Lady,  take  my  heart  — 

Take  it,  for  it  is  yours,  my  sweet, 
So  yours  it  is,  that 't  were  not  meet 
(^Another  shared  its  slightest  part. 

So,  yours,  if  yours  it  pine  and  die, 

Then  yours,  all  yours,  shall  be  the  blame, 
^/fnd  there  below,  your  soul  in  shame 

Shall  rue  such  bitter  cruelty. 

IV ere  you  a  savage  Scythian's  child, 

Yet  love,  that  turns  the  tigers  mild, 

Would  melt  you  at  my  sighing. 

But  you,  more  cruel-fierce  than  they, 
Have  set  your  will  my  heart  to  slay, 
live  but  through  my  dying. 


TO  THE  BEES 

H  whither,  honey-bees, 
Oh  whither  fly  you, 
Seeking  o'er  blosmy  leas 
Food  to  supply  you  ? 
If  you  would  feast  on  flowers  divine, 
<7^of  longer  range  without  design 
But  hither  hie  you. 

Come  seek  Cassandra1  s  lips 

Warm  with  my  kisses  — 
Tour  honey-comb  that  drips 

Less  sweet  than  this  is. 
Here  roses  blow,  and  blood-red  bowers 
Of  Hyacinth's  and  Aj 'ax*  flowers 
Breathe  perfumed  blisses. 

Sweet  marjoram  all  Winter  through, 

<ix4W  arum  fragrant, 
Wait  not  Spring's  leave  to  bloom  anew 

That  March  and  May  grant, 
But  match  the  laurel,  ever  young, 
While  anise  blossoms  ever  among 
The  woodbine  vagrant. 


But  sheathe  your  stings,  in  care 

Her  lips  to  cherish. 
She  too  can  sting,  beware  /  .  .  . 

ere  there  flourish 

ousand  flowers,  leave  some  for  mine 
To  bear  the  manna  and  the  wine 
lie  that  nourish. 


«  LOVS  MS,  LOVS  MS  NOT" 

*T*HE  better  you  know  of  my  true  love's  throe, 
The  more  you  fly  me, 
zJMy  cruel  one ; 

The  more  I  woo  you,  the  more  pursue  you, 
The  more  you  defy  me, 
The  less  are  won. 

Then  shall  I  leave  you  ?  Though  yt  would  not  grieve 

you, 
<^Alas  !  believe  me 

Pm  not  so  brave  ! 

Yet  PR  bless  the  hour  of  Death' s  full  power 
If  you '//  receive  me 

To  die  your  slave. 


THS  <JMOURNINg 


"  \7[/HAT  art  *hou  saying,  doing,  pensive  dove, 
Upon  that  withered  tree  ?  "   "  Ah,  friend, 
I  moan" 
"Why  meanest  thou  ?"    "  Because  my  mate  is 

gone, 
<Dearer  than  life"     "  Why  left  she  this  fair 

f\    j) 

grove  r 

44  ^/f  fowler,  through  the  cruel  craft  he  wove, 
Limed  her  and  slew,  since  when  I  mourn  alone 
<^And  chide  harsh  Death  that  took  my  cherished 
one 

Tet  would  not  slay  me  with  her,  my  true  love" 


thou  fain  to  die  and  join  thy  mate  ?  " 
"  T>o  I  not  languish  in  this  darksome  wood 
Forever  by  regret  of  her  pursued  ?  " 

O  gentle  birdlings,  happy  is  your  fate  ! 
1S(ature  herself  in  love  hath  nurtured  you 
To  die  or  live  unchanging  lovers  true" 


LOVES 


TT*  RE  Love  from  barren  Chaos  drew  the  skies, 
^-^  Piercing  its  womb  that  hid  the  light  of  day, 

Beneath  primeval  earth's  and  water's  sway 
The  shapeless  Heavens  lay  whelmed,  in  dark  disguise. 

Sven  so  my  sluggish  soul,  too  dull  to  rise, 
Within  this  body's  gross  and  heavy  clay 
Without  or  form  or  feature  shapeless  lay 

Until  Love's  arrow  pierced  it  from  your  eyes. 

Love  brought  me  life  and  power  and  truth  and  light, 
<iJMadepure  my  inmost  heart  through  his  con- 

trol, 
<t^And  shaped  my  being  to  a  perfect  whole. 

He  warms  my  veins,  he  lights  my  thought,  his  flight 
Snatches  me  upward,  till  in  Heaven's  height 
I  find  the  ordered  pathway  of  my  soul. 


LOSS'S  HEALINg 

]V/TY  chosen  one — you  to  whom  I  have  said, 

u  YOU  and  you  only  ever  please  my  heart  " — 
/  look  deep  in  your  eyes,  and  heal  the  smart 

That  long  love-yearning  hath  engendered. 

<±J\4y  hunger  grows  the  more  through  being  fed. 
But  Love,  who  wasteth  not  his  perfect  art 
On  the  unworthy,  with  each  deeper  dart 

Brings  not  the  pain  I  thought,  but  joy  instead, 

<i^And  healeth  from  my  heart  all  pain  away. 

Love  is  not  pain  but  gain.    Though  bitter-sweet, 
Less  bitter  't  is  than  sweet,  less  ill  than  good. 

Twice  happy  then,  yea,  thrice,  though  Love  me  slay, 
If  but  below  I  may  Tibullus  meet 
<*sfnd  wander  there  beside  him  in  Love's  wood. 


LOV8  THE  TEACHER  AND 


T  DRAGGED  my  life  along  with  sullen  sighs 
•*•  In  heaviness  of  body  and  of  soul, 

Knowing  not  yet  the  Muse's  high  control 
onor  that  she  brings  her  votaries, 


Until  the  hour  I  loved  you.    Then  your  eyes 
Became  my  guide  to  lead  to  virtue's  goal, 
Where  I  might  win  that  knowledge  fair  and 
whole 

Which  by  true  loving  makes  men  nobly  wise. 

O  love,  my  all,  if  aught  of  good  I  do, 
If  worthily  of  your  dear  eyes  I  write, 
You  are  the  cause,  yours  is  the  potency. 


erfect  grace  comes  ever  but  from  you, 
You  are  my  spirit  !    If  I  work  aright, 
*T  is  you  that  do  it,  you  that  work  in  me. 


IN 


"IT  TIDE-STRETCHING  plains,  and  mountain-peaks 

far-seen, 

Sky,  air,  and  winds  —  and  little  ripply  waves 
Of  springs,  and  winding  banks  the  slow  stream 

laves, 
Tall  forests  dark,  and  low-cut  coppice  green, 

Groves,  vine-clad  hills,  and  blosmy  vales  between, 
Buds,  flowers,  dew-laden  grass,  deep  mossy 

caves  — 
<^Allyou  that  beard  my  songs'  low  sweet  sad 

staves  — 
Waters  of  Loir,  woods  of  my  loved  Gas  tine, 

Since  grief  of  parting  wrung  me  with  such  pains 
I  could  not  say  "  Farewell"  to  her,  alas  ! 
Whose  I  am,  near  or  far,  where'er  I  dwell, 

I  beg  of  you,  sky,  air,  winds,  mountains,  plains, 
Woods,  coppice,  river-banks,  caves,  springs, 

flowers,  grass, 

Hills,  valleys,  groves,  say  for  me,  "  Fare  thee 
well." 


LOFS'S  SOLICITUDE 

XT  THERE  art  thou  at  this  moment,  love  ?  —  w  hat 

doing, 
What  saying,  thinking  ?  —  <Dost  thou  think  of 

me  ? 

Hast  thou  no  care  for  my  hard  agony, 
Though  care  for  thee  still  houndeth  me,  renewing 


in,  and  all  my  heart  with  love  subduing  ?  — 
^Absent,  I  hear  thee  speak,  and  speak  to  thee. 
Thy  form  so  present  in  my  mind  I  see, 

can  harbor  there  of  other  wooing. 


I  hold  thine  eyes,  thy  beauty,  and  thy  grace 
Sngraven  on  my  heart  —  and  every  place 
Where  e'er  I  saw  thee  dance,  laugh,  speak,  or 
move. 

I  hold  thee  mine,  though  I  am  not  mine  own  ; 
I  live  and  breathe  in  thee,  in  thee  alone, 
Light  of  mine  eyes,  blood  of  my  veins,  my  love. 


IN  SPRINff 


"1T7HAT  boots  it  me  to  see  this  verdure  fair 

That  laughs  along  the  fields  —  to  hear  the 

call 

Ofbirdlings,  and  the  purling  waterfall, 
<^And  Spring-time  winds  that  woo  the  murmurous 
air, 

When  she  that  woundeth  me,  yet  hath  no  care 
Of  how  my  pains  increase,  comes  not  at  all 
<^And  hides  the  brightness  of  her  eyes  withal, 

Twin  stars,  that  fed  my  heart  with  heavenly  fare. 

I  had  far  rather  keep  old  Winter's  cold  ; 

For  Winter  doth  less  aptly  aid  Love's  charms 
Than  Spring-time  months,  that  are  Love's  Sum- 
moners 

Tet  make  me  hate  myself,  who  cannot  hold 
In  this  fair  month  of  April  in  my  arms 
Her  who  doth  hold  my  life  and  death  in  hers. 


THE  THOUGHT  OF  ^DSATH 

OINCE  when  her  faithful  eyes,  to  which  I  yield 
^   Utter  allegiance,  no  more  bring  me  light, 

'Darkness  is  day  to  me,  and  day  is  night  — 
Such  power  upon  me  doth  her  absence  wield. 

zJWy  bed  is  grown  a  fierce-fought  battle-field. 

Toothing  can  please  me,  all  things  work  me  spite. 

One  thought  that  puts  all  other  thoughts  to  flight 
Clutches  my  heart  and  tears  its  wounds  unhealed. 

Beside  the  Loir,  where  countless  flowers  spring, 
Sated  with  sorrows,  longings,  bootless  cries, 
I  should  have  set  an  end  to  all  my  pain, 

Save  that  some  God  doth  ever  turn  mine  eyes 
Toward  that  far  country  of  her  sojourning, 
Whose  thought  brings  comfort  to  my  heart  again. 


T(EMEMBERED  SCET^ES 

*T*HIS  is  the  wood  my  holy  angel-child 

Made  joyous  with  her  song,  that  day  in 

Spring ; 

'These  are  the  flowers  her  touch  was  gladdening 
While  here  she  dreamed  apart,  and  dreaming 
smiled ; 

This  is  the  little  woodland  meadow  wild 

Whose  green  young  life  seemed  neath  her  feet  to 

spring 
<^/fs  step  by  step  she  wandered,  pillaging 

Flowers  sweet  as  she  was,  fresh  and  undefiled. 

This  is  the  spot  where  first  I  saw  her  smile 
With  eyes  that  rapt  my  soul  away  the  while ; 
Here  I  have  seen  her  weep,  there  heard  her  sing, 

*Twas  here  I  saw  her  dance,  there  sit  aloof.  .  .  . 
Of  such  vague  thoughts,  with  shuttle  wandering, 
Love  weaves  my  web  of  life,  both  warp  and  woof. 


THE  <JMUS8S'  COMPOSING 

TVyTESEEMS  I  scarce  could  live,  but  for  the  Muse, 
•**•*-   <fJMy  faithful  mate  who  follows  here  and 

there 
O'er  hi  Us,  fie  Ids,  woods  ;  and  charms  away  my 

care 
With  beauteous  gifts,  and  all  my  woe  subdues. 

If  I  am  sad,  I  know  no  other  ruse 

To  conquer  grief,  but  call  my  comrade  rare, 
aJMy  Clio  ;  straight  she  comes,  and  greets  me  fair 
nd  graciously,  nor  ever  makes  excuse. 


Would  the  nine  Sisters  might  each  season  please 
To  make  my  house  with  their  fair  gifts  replete, 
Which  rust  can  never  spoil,  nor  frost,  nor  fire  ! 

Thyme  blossoms  not  so  sweet  for  honey-bees 

<^As  their  fair  gifts  upon  my  mouth  are  sweet, 
On  which  high  minds  may  feed  and  never  tire. 


THS  <POET'S  giFT 

THAT  century  to  century  may  tell 
The  perfect  love  Tfonsard  once  bore  to  you, 
How  he  was  reason-reft  for  love  of  you 
<^And  thought  it  freedom  in  your  chains  to  dwell ; 

That  age  on  age  posterity  full  well 

know  my  veins  were  filled  with  beauty  of 
you 

nd  that  my  heart's  one  wish  was  only  you, 
I  bring  for  gift  to  you  this  immortelle. 

Long  will  it  live  in  freshness  of  its  prime. 
eXfW/0*  shall  live,  through  me,  long  after 

death  — 
So  can  the  well-skilled  lover  conquer  Time, 

Who  loving  you  all  virtue  follow  eth. 
Like  Laura,  you  shall  live  the  cynosure 
Of  earth,  so  long  as  pens  and  books  endure. 


33 


LIF8,  JOT, 


SOJ{G 


TO  HIS  VALSr 

T  WANT  three  days  to  read  the  Iliad  through  ! 

So,  Cory  don,  close  fast  my  chamber  door. 

If  anything  should  bother  me  before 
I've  done,  I  swear  you  '//  have  somewhat  to  rue  ! 


not  the  servant,  nor  your  mate,  nor  you 
Shall  come  to  make  the  bed  or  clean  the  floor. 
I  must  have  three  good  quiet  days  —  or  four. 
Then  I  '//  make  merry  for  a  week  or  two. 

!  but  —  if  any  one  should  come  from  HER, 

t  him  quickly  !   Be  no  loiterer, 
But  come  and  make  me  brave  for  his  receiving. 

But  no  one  else  !  —  not  friends  or  nearest  kin  ! 
Though  an  Olympian  God  should  seek  me,  leaving 
His  Heaven,  shut  fast  the  door  /   Don't  let  him 
in! 


37 


SUMMER'S 


H  !  but  my  mind  is  weary  ! 
Long  I  have  conned  the  dreary 
Tomes  of  Aratus. 
Surely  '/  is  time  to  play  now  ! 
Ho  !  to  the  fields  away  now  ! 
Shall  we  not  live  to-day  now  ? 

What  though  dull  fools  berate  us  ! 

What  is  the  use  of  learning, 
When  it  but  brings  new  yearning 

Problems  to  tease  us  ? 
When,  or  at  eve  or  morning, 
Soon,  but  without  a  warning, 
'Pleadings  and  pity  scorning, 
Orcus  the  dark  shall  seize  us. 

Corydon,  lead  the  way,  and 

Find  where  good  wine  's  to  pay,  and 

Cool  me  a  flagon  ! 
Then  in  vine-trellis  ed  bowers, 
Bedded  on  thick-strewn  flowers, 
Hours  upon  idle  hours 

Sweetly  shall  haste  or  lag  on. 


Buy  me  no  meat,  but  mellow 
<iSfpricots,  melons  yellow, 

Cream,  and  strawberries. 
These  have  the  sweetest  savor 
Saten  in  forest  cave,  or 
Lying  by  brooks  that  rave  or 
Streamlet  that  singing  tarries. 


in  my  youth's  fresh  buoyance 
Laughter  shall  wait  onjoyance, 
Wine  shall  flow  fast  now  ; 
Lest,  when  my  life  grows  colder, 
Sickness,  by  age  made  bolder, 
Say,  as  he  taps  my  shoulder  : 

"  Come,  friend  —  you  've  drunk  your  last 


39 


TO  THE  HAWTHOT(N-TREE 


/y,  whose  burgeoning 

Blossoms  spring 
Where  these  banks  wind  beauteously, 
'Down  along  thine  arms  there  clings, 

Waves,  and  swings, 
Trailing  wild-vine  drapery. 

f%iyal  camps  of  scurrying  ants 

Have  their  haunts 
Fortified,  at  thy  roots'  head. 
In  thy  hollow-eaten  bole's 

Countless  holes 
Tiny  bees  find  board  and  bed. 

Nightingale  the  chorister 

^Dwelleth  here 

Where  in  flush  of  youth  he  made 
Love,  and  still  each  year  again 

Shall  obtain 
Solace  in  thy  leafy  shade. 


40 


In  thy  top  be  bath  his  nest 

Built )  and  dressed — 
Woven  of  wool,  with  silks  made  gay  ; 
Whence  his  young  so  soon  as  hatched, 

sJMust  be  snatched, 
For  my  hands  a  gentle  prey. 

Live,  then,  dainty  hawthorn  fair, 

Live  forever, 

Live  secure  from  every  foe  ! 
<tJ7l4ay  nor  axe  nor  lightning  harm  ; 

Wind,  nor  storm, 
8'er  avail  to  lay  thee  low. 


4-' 


OD  guard  you,  and  greet  you  well, 
t^fesseitgers  of  Spring  : 
^Nightingale  and  cuckoo, 
Turtle-dove  and  hoopoe, 
Swallow  swift,  and  all  wild  birds 
That  with  a  hundred  varied  words 

<r%ouse  and  make  to  ring 
Svery  greening  glade  and  fell. 

(jod  guard  you,  and  greet  you  fain, 

'Dainty  flowerets,  too  : 
'Daisies,  lilies,  roses, 
Poppies  —  and  the  posies 
Sprung  where  ancient  heroes  fell, 
Hyacinth  and  asphodel  — 
<zJ7l4int  and  thyme  and  rue  : 
e  welcome  back  again  ! 


(jod  guard  you,  and  greet  you  true, 

Butterflies  and  bees, 
In  your  motley  dresses 
Wooing  the  sweet  grasses, 
Flitting  free  on  rainbow-wing, 
Coaxing,  kissing,  cozening 
Flowers  of  all  degrees, 
cj%ea1  or  yellow,  white  or  blue. 
42 


<LX^  thousand  thousand  times  I  greet 

Thy  return  again, 
Sweet  and  beauteous  season  ; 
In  sooth  I  love  with  reason 
Better  far  thy  sunny  gleams 
<^And  thy  gently  prattling  streams 
Than  Winter's  wind  and  rain 
That  shut  me  close  in  my  retreat. 


43 


THE  COURTIER'S 


OOD  morn,  my  heart,  good  morn,  my  life's  one  end, 
(jfood  morn,  light  of  mine  eyes,  my  joy,  my 
sorrow, 

(food  morn,  I  bring  you  greeting, 
my  pretty  sweeting, 
airest  fair,  my  love  — 
<^l4y  fresh-blown  flower  sweet,  my  sweetest  friend, 
zJWy  Spring-time  sweet,  my  nestling,  my  sweet 
dove, 

turtle-dove,  my  sparrow, 
rebel  sweet,  good-morrow  ! 


(food-morrow,  love  —  and  may  I  sooner  die 
Than  e'er  again  my  faithlessness  renew,  love, 
Leaving  my  lover's  pleasure 
For  sake  of  fame  and  treasure 

To  follow  court  and  king. 
*Nay,  perish  riches,  honor,  loyalty  ! 

I  will  not  leave  my  love  for  anything, 
Or  part  again  from  you,  love, 
<^(4y  goddess  sweet,  my  true-love. 


44 


TVT  ARIE,  arise,  my  indolent  sweet  saint  ! 

Long  since  the  skylark  sang  his  morning 

stave, 

Long  since  the  nightingale,  love's  gentle  slave, 
Carolled  upon  the  thorn  his  love-complaint. 


ise  !  come  see  the  tender  grass  besprent 
With  dew-pearls,  and  your  rose  with  blossoms 

brave. 

Come  see  the  dainty  pinks  to  which  you  gave 
Last  eve  their  water  with  a  care  so  quaint. 

Last  eve  you  swore  and  pledged  your  shining  eyes 
Sooner  than  I  this  morning  you  would  rise, 
But  dawn's  soft  beauty-sleep,  with  sweet  dis- 
guising, 

Still  gently  seals  those  eyes  —  that  now  I  kiss 
^/fnd  now  again  —  and  now  this  breast,  and 

this, 
<^A  hundred  times,  to  teach  you  early  rising  * 


45 


LOVS-SONg 


\\  THEN  the  beauteous  Spring  I  see-) 

Glad  and  free, 

zJMaking  young  the  sea  and  earth, 
Then  the  light  of  day  above 

<^And  our  love 
Seem  but  newly  brought  to  birth. 

When  the  sky  of  deeper  blue 

Lights  anew 

Lands  more  beautiful  and  green, 
Love,  with  witching  looks  for  darts, 

Wars  on  hearts, 
Winning  them  for  his  demesne. 

Scattering  his  arrows  dire 

Tipped  with  fire, 
He  doth  bring  beneath  his  sway 
tJMen  and  birds  and  beasts  for  slaves 

<*x^W  the  waves 
To  his  power  obeisance  pay.  .  .  . 


46 


,  for  Love's  triumphing, 

In  the  Spring 

Thrills  my  heart  at  every  Ireath 
By  new  beauties  everywhere 

Which  her  care 
From  my  Lady  borroweth  : 

When  I  see  the  woodland  bowers 

Bright  with  flowers, 
<^4nd  the  banks  with  flowers  bedight, 
Then  methinks  I  see  the  grace 

Of  her  face 
Fair  with  blended  red  and  white ; 

When  I  see  elm-branches  bound 

Close  around 

Where  the  loving  ivies  wind, 
Then  I  feel  encompassing 

zsfrms  that  cling 
Fast  about  my  neck  entwined ; 

When  I  hear  thee  in  the  vale, 

Nightingale, 

Uttering  thy  sweetest  voice, 
Then  methinks  her  voice  I  hear, 

Low  and  clear, 
<^7l4aking  all  my  soul  rejoice  ; 
47 


When  the  soft  wind  comes  anon 

<*Jfyfur  muring  on 

Through  the  many-branched  grove, 
Then  I  hear  the  murmured  word 

That  I  heard 
Once  alone  beside  my  love ; 

When  I  see  a  new-blown  flower's 

Sarliest  hours 

By  the  morning  sun  caressed, 
Then  its  beauty  I  compare 

To  the  rare 
Budding  beauty  of  her  breast  ; 

When  the  sun  in  Orient  skies 

9  (fins  to  rise, 

Flaunting  free  his  yellow  hair, 
Then  methinks  my  sweet  I  see 

Fronting  me, 
Binding  up  her  tresses  fair ; 

When  I  see  the  meadows  studded 

With  new-budded 
Flowers  that  overflow  the  earth, 
Then  my  senses  half  believe 

They  receive 

Honeyed  fragrance  from  her  breath. 
48 


So  it  proveth,  bowsoe'er 

I  compare 

Spring-time  with  my  chosen  one. 
Spring  gives  life  to  every  flower  — 

Life  and  power 
Come  to  me  from  her  alone. 

Would  '/  were  mine,  where  streamlets  flow 

Whispering  low, 
To  unbind  that  wealth  of  hair, 
Then  to  wind  as  many  a  curl 

<^As  there  purl 
Tfunning  rippling  wavelets  there. 

Would  't  were  mine  to  be  the  god 

Of  this  wood, 

So  to  seize  and  hold  my  love, 
Kissing  her  as  oft  again 

cj^/^V  there  ben 
(j-reening  leaves  in  all  the  grove.  .  .  . 


,  my  sweet,  my  martyrdom, 
Hither  come, 

See  the  flowers  how  they  fare. 
They  to  pity  me  are  fain  — 

Of  my  pain 

Thou  alone  hast  not  a  care. 
49 


See  the  gentle  mating  dove 

^And  his  love, 

How  they  win  the  joy  we  seek, 
How  they  love  as  Nature  bade 

Unafraid, 
How  they  kiss  with  wings  and  beak, 

While  we,  following  honor's  shade, 

Have  betrayed 

yoy,  through  fear  and  coward  shame. 
<^Ah  !  the  birds  are  happier  far 

Than  we  are, 
Loving  without  let  or  blame. 

Time  is  hasting  to  destroy 

<^All  our  joy,  . 

Snatching  it  with  harpy  claws. 
Sweetheart,  let  us  live  and  love 

Like  the  dove, 
Heeding  not  men's  rigorous  laws. 

Kiss  me,  ere  the  moment  slips^ 

On  my  lips, 

O  my  love,  and  yet  again 
Kiss  me,  ere  our  youth's  brief  day 

Fleet  away, 

<*J7l4aking  all  our  passion  vain. 
50 


T(OSE-BUDS 


"ITTHILE  this  green  month  is  fleeting, 
Oh  !  come,  my  pretty  sweeting, 

Waste  not  in  vain  thy  ring-time  ! 
Sly  age,  ere  we  've  an  inkling 
Thereof,  our  hair  is  sprinkling  — 

He  passeth  even  as  Spring-time. 

Then,  while  our  life  is  crying 
For  love,  and  Time  is  flying, 

Come,  love,  come  reap  desire. 
'Pass  love  from  vein  to  vein  ! 
Swift  comes  old  Death  —  and  then 

^411  joys  expire. 


CJRPE  THEM 

HERE  is  a  time  for  all  things ,  sweet ! 
When  we  at  church  are  kneeling 
We  'II  worship  truly. 
But  when  in  secret  lovers  meet, 
Their  wanton  blisses  stealing, 
We  'II  match  them  duly. 


Why,  then,  oh  why  deny  my  will 
To  kiss  thy  hairs  soft  beauty, 

Thy  lips'  dear  roses  ?' 
When  I  would  touch  thy  breast,  why  still 
^Dost  feign  the  nun's  cold  duty 
In  cloister-closes  ? 


For  whom  dost  save  thine  eyes  in  sooth, 
Thy  brow,  thy  bosom's  sweetness, 

Thy  lips  twin-mated? 
T)ost  think  to  kiss  King  Pluto's  mouth 
When  Charon's  hateful fleetness 
Oars  thee  ill-fated? 


Thine  aspect  shall  be  gaunt  and  dread, 
Thy  lips,  when  Death  has  ta'en  thee, 

<iSfll  sicklied  over. 
Were  I  to  meet  thee  mongst  the  dead 
I  'd  pass  by,  and  disdain  thee, 
Thee,  once  my  lover  ! 


Thy  skull  shall  know  nor  hair  nor  skin, 
Thy  jowl  the  worms  shall  fatten, 

Srstwhile  so  winning ; 
Thou  'It  have  no  other  teeth  within 
Thy  jaws,  but  such  as  batten 
In  death's-heads  grinning.  .  .  . 


Sweet,  while  we  live,  oh  !  seize  to-day, 
^/fnd  every  respite  using, 

Spare  not  thy  kisses  ! 
Soon,  soon,  Death  comes,  and  then  for  aye 
Thou  'It  rue  thy  cold  refusing 
<^And  mourn  lost  blisses. 


53 


LOVS'S  LESSOR 

HE  moon  each  month  is  blenched 

Brighter  to  rise ; 
But  once  life's  light  is  quenched^ 

Then  shall  our  eyes 
Long  sleep  be  taking, 
With  no  awaking. 


Then  kiss  me^  while  we  live 

<tSfbove  the  ground  ! 
<^A  thousand  kisses  give  — 
Love  knows  no  bound. 
To  His  divinity 
Belongs  infinity. 


54 


TO  THE  SKYLARK 


OKYLARK,  how  I  envy  you 

^  Tour  gentle  pleasures  ever  new, 

Warbling  at  the  break  of  day 

Of  love,  sweet  love,  sweet  love  alway, 

<*^/fnd  shaking  free  your  beating  wings 

Of  dew  that  to  each  feather  clings  ! 


£re  Apollo  risen  hath 

Tou  lift  your  body  from  its  bath, 

Parting  up  with  little  leaps 

To  dry  it  where  the  cloud-flock  sleeps, 

Fluttering  free  each  tiny  wing 

<^And  u  tirra-lirra  "  carolling 

Sweet,  so  sweet,  that  every  swain, 

Knowing  Spring  has  come  again, 

Thinketh  on  his  love  anew 

^/fnd  longs  to  be  a  bird  like  you. 

Then,  when  you  have  scaled  the  sky, 
Tou  drop  —  as  swift,  as  suddenly, 
^fs  the  spool  a  maid  lets  fall 
When,  caught  at  eve  in  slumber's  thrall, 
distaff  for  got,  she  nods  so  much 
Her  cheek  and  bosom  almost  touch ; 
55 


Or  as  by  day  when  she  doth  spin 

(!>"^W  he  that  seeks  her  love  to  win 

Cometh  near  her  unbeknown  — 

(^Abashed  she  casts  her  glances  down, 

<^4nd  quick  the  slender  thin-wound  spool 

From  her  hand  afar  doth  roll.  .  .  . 

So  you  drop,  my  lark,  my  lover, 

dainty  minion,  darling  rover, 

Lark  I  love  more  tenderly 

Than  all  the  other  birds  that  fly, 

<*JMore  than  even  the  nightingale 

Whose  notes  through  copse  and  grove  prevail. 

Innocent  of  every  harm, 

You  never  rob  the  toilsome  farm 

Like  those  birds  that  steal  the  wheat 

<^4nd  spoil  the  harvest  —  thieves  that  eat 

growing  grain  in  stalk  and  leaf 

Or  shell  it  from  the  standing  sheaf. 

(preening  furrows  are  your  haunts, 

Where  the  little  worms  and  ants, 

Or  the  flies  and  grubs,  you  seek, 

To  fill  your  children's  straining  beak, 

While  they  wait,  with  wings  ungrown, 

Clothed  in  clinging  golden  down. 


Wrongly  have  the  poets  told 

That  you,  the  larks,  in  days  of  old 

^ared  your  father  to  betray 

^And  cut  his  royal  locks  away 

Wherein  his  fated  power  lay. 

Out !  alas  !  not  you  alone 

The  wrongs  of  poets'  tongues  have  known. 

Hear  the  nightingale  complain 

<^Andfrom  her  bower  their  tales  arraign. 

Swallows  sing  the  self-same  plea 

The  while  they  chirp  "  cossi,  cossi." 

(]S(one  the  less,  then,  I  entreat, 

Tour  "  tirra-lirra  "  still  repeat  — 

sJWake  them  burst  with  very  spite, 

These  poets,  for  the  lies  they  write  I 

<]S{one  the  less,  for  what  they  say, 
Live  ye  joyously  a /way  / 
Seek  at  each  return  of  Spring 
Tour  long-accustomed  pleasuring, 
l^eyer  may  the  pilfering  raid 
Of  quaintly  dainty  shepherd-maid 
Toward  your  furrows  turn  her  quest 
To  spy  your  new-born  cheeping  nest 
<*Sfnd  steal  it  in  her  gown  away 
The  while  you  sing  in  Heaven  your  lay. 


57 


Live,  then,  birdlings,  live  fore' Vr, 
^And  lift  aloft  through  highest  air 
Warbled  song  and  soaring  wing 
To  herald  each  return  of  Spring. 


N  tender  grass,  neath  a  laurel-tree, 
Who  listetb  to  lie  and  drink  with  me  ? 
Boy- Cupid  shall  come,  and  girding  up 
His  light-blown  robe  with  a  hempen  string 
Or  flax  to  his  naked  loins,  shall  bring 
The  wine,  and  bear  my  cup. 


The  life  of  man  is  a  fleeting  breath, 
From  day  to  day  it  evanisheth 

Like  breaking  waves  that  roll  to  the  shore, 
death's  hour  comes  on  .  .  .  and  our  tomb  shall  keep 
'frothing  of  us,  save  a  nameless  heap 
Of  little  bones  —  no  more. 


I  care  not  for  custom,  that  bids  perfume 
With  spices  and  balm  my  new-made  tomb 

(•x-^W  pour  sweet  odors,  and  incense  shed. 
But  while  I  'm  living,  it  is  my  will 
To  bathe  in  fragrance,  and  drink  my  fill, 
crown  with  flowers  my  head. 


59 


/  '//  name  myself  for  my  heir,  I  vow, 

spend  the  heritage  here  and  now  ! 
Who  lives  for  others  seeks  foolish  cares. 

the  pelican,  pouring  free 
His  blood  for  his  children.    <*JMad  is  he 
Who  saves  his  goods  for  his  heirs  ! 


^T^HE  earth  drinks  rain  through  every  pore, 

Through  every  root  the  tree, 
The  sea  drinks  rivers  evermore, 
The  sun  drinks  up  the  sea, 

The  moon  drinks  up  the  sun  his  light, 

<^All  things  in  nature  drink. 
Since  drinking  is  the  common  right 

Come  let  us  drink,  drink,  drink  ! 


61 


CO  MR  ADS 


\\TE  hold  not  in  our  power 

The  coming  morrows'  time  ; 
Life  has  no  certain  dower. 
Kings'  favors  we  desire, 
<iSfnd  waiting  them,  expire 
Sre  hope  has  passed  its  prime. 


The  man  whom  Death  has  taen 
Bats  not,  and  drinks  no  more, 
Though  barns  be  full  of  grain 
<^And  vaults  have  wine  in  store 
On  Earth,  that  he  has  bought. 
They  reach  not  even  his  thought. 


Then  what  shall  care  bestead  ? 
(jfo,  Cory  don,  prep  are 
^/f  couch  with  roses  spread ; 
To  banish  cark  and  care 
I  yll  lie  outstretched  for  hours 

s  and  heaped-up  flowers. 


<^And  bring  D'  Aurat  to  me 
<^/Ind  all  that  company 
The  Muses  love  so  well, 
Forgetting  not  Jodelle. 
From  eve  to  morn  we  'II feast 
With  fivescore  cups  at  least ! 


'Pour  wine,  and  pour  again  ! 

In  this  great  goblet  golden 

I  'II  drink  to  Estienne 

Who  saved  from  Lethe's  treasures 

The  sweet,  sweet  Teian  measures 

Of  that  lost  singer  olden, 


<*sfnacreon  the  wine-king, 

To  whom  the  drinker's  pleasure 

Is  due,  and  Bacchus'  treasure 

His  flasks,  and  Love,  and  Venus, 

<L/fnd  tipsy  old  Silenus 

In  vine-clad  bowers  drinking  ! 


THE  PRAISE   OF  T^OSES 


we  roses  into  wine  ! 

In  this  good  wine  these  roses 
Tour,  and  quaff  the  drink  divine 

Till  sorrow's  hold  uncloses 
From  our  hearts,  both  mine  and  thine. 

Kings  and  clowns  from  diverse  ways 
^/ft  Charon's  boat  are  meeting* 

Ifone  escape  their  fated  days.  .  .  . 
<*Sfh  !  friend,  while  time  is  fleeting 

Let  us  sing  the  rose's  praise. 

looses  are  the  chief  of  all 

The  flowers  in  garden  closes, 

Flowers  of  joy,  and  therewithal 
Of  love  —  ana1  so  the  roses 

"  Venus'  violets  "  I  call. 


'fyses  are  Love's  own  bouquet 
^Andjoyance  of  the  Graces. 

'Dawn  doth  give  them  pearls  alway 
Whose  white  their  red  enlaces 

^Dipped  in  dew  at  break  of  day. 
64 


Ttyes  are  the  Gods'  delight, 
<tSfnd  maidens'  best  adorning, 

^\4aidens  deck  their  bosoms  white 
With  crimson  roses,  scorning 

Q  old  and  gems,  though  ne'er  so  bright. 

What  is  fair  without  the  rose  ? 

Beauty  is  born  of  roses. 
Venus'  skin  is  all  one  rose, 

^Aurora's  touch  is  roses, 
suns  have  brows  of  rose. 


Be  my  brows  with  roses  crowned 
In  place  of  laurel's  glory. 

Call  the  twice-born  God  renowned, 
Our  father  hale  and  hoary  ; 

Spread  him  roses  all  around; 

Bacchus  loves  the  beauty  sweet 
Of  crimson-petalled  roses. 

c%oses  Jill  his  vine-retreat 
Where  care-free  he  reposes 

^Drinking  mid  the  Summer's  heat. 


THS  T(OSS  OF  LOVS 


"  SWEET-HEART,  COME  SEE  IF 
THE  1(gSE" 

OWEET-HEART,  come  see  if  the  rose 

Which  at  morning  began  to  unclose 
Its  damask  gown  to  the  sun 
Has  not  lost,  now  the  day  is  done, 
The  folds  of  its  damasked  gown 
<^And  its  colors  so  like  your  own. 


see,  in  bow  brief  a  space, 
Sweet-heart,  it  strewed  the  place, 
tafias,  with  its  beauties'  fall  !  .  .  . 
O  step-dame  Nature  !  —  if  all 
Of  life  you  will  grant  such  a  flower 
Is  from  morning  to  evening  hour  ! 

Then  hear  me  and  heed,  sweet-heart 
Swiftly  the  years  depart  ! 
Harvest,  oh  !  harvest  your  hour 
While  life  is  a-bloom  with  youth  ! 
For  age  with  bitter  ruth 
Will  fade  your  beauty's  flower. 


LIFS'S  T(OS8S 

are  very  old,  by  the  hearth's  glare, 
candle-time,  spinning  and  winding 
thread, 

You  'II  sing  my  lines,  and  say,  astonished  : 
<rRonsard  made  these  for  me,  when  I  was  fair. 

Then  not  a  servant  even,  with  toil  and  care 

^Almost  out-worn,  hearing  what  you  have  said, 
Shall  fail  to  start  awake  and  lift  her  head 

<^And  bless  your  name  with  deathless  praise  for  e'er. 


nes  shall  lie  in  earth,  and  my  poor  ghost 
Take  its  long  rest  where  Love's  dark  myrtles 

thrive. 
You,  crouching  by  the  fire,  old,  shrunken,  grey, 

Shall  rue  your  proud  disdain  and  my  love  lost.  .  .  . 
,  hear  me,  love  !  —  Wait  not  to-morrow  — 
live, 
nd  pluck  life's  roses,  oh  !  to-day,  to-day. 


LOVS'S  TOK8N 

,  my  conqueror  ,  this  ivy  wound 
In  wreaths  I  give  —  the  ivy  that  a  /way 
Holds  trees  and  walls  close  twined  in  spray  on 

spray, 
Tendril  on  tendril,  wrapt,  embraced,  and  bound. 

It  is  your  right  to  be  with  ivy  crowned  ! 

Would  it  were  mine  to  wind  me,  night  and  day, 
T^ound  you,  my  column,  in  the  ivy's  way, 

lie  along  your  breast  in  love's  deep  swound.  .  . 


,  will  the  time  not  come,  will  it  not  be  — 
When,  just  as  dawn  awakes  the  world  to  life, 
<R(eath  branches  of  a  bower  thick  shade  encloses, 

Under  soft  skies,  at  prattling  birds'  first  glee, 
I  shall  at  last  be  conqueror  in  love's  strife, 
clasp  at  will  your  ivory  and  roses  ? 


<JMESSENgER 


I^IGHTINGALE,  nightingale, 

^uest  of  my  bower, 
'Pouring  o'er  hill  and  dale 

<I^otes  of  such  power 
<]S(one  can  forget  thy  tale 

Of  sorrow's  dower, 


Fly  to  my  cruel  one, 

Tell  her  in  truth 
That  for  no  orison 

Time  will  have  ruth  — 
Quicker  than  dreams  are  done 

'Passes  our  youth. 


Tell  her  the  fairest  rose 

Winter's  endeavor 
Withered,  shall  May  unclose 

Fairer  than  ever.  — 
Life's  Spring-time,  once  it  goes, 

Comes  again  never. 


Once  age  has  come,  the  grace 
Crowning  her  brow 

Fades  like  a  garden-space 
Cut  by  the  plough, 

Furrowing  deep  her  face 
Lily-white  now. 


Once  age  has  stealthily 
Wrought  out  his  crime, 

Vainly  she  '//  weep  for  the 
Flight  of  swift  time, 

Wishing  she  'd  shared  with  me 
Sweets  of  her  prime. 


Nightingale,  bid  her  come 
Where  love  reposes, 

Lying  on  sweet  winsome 
Beds  of  rich  posies, 

Changing  her  colors  from 
Lilies  to  roses. 


73 


HELENS  BEAUTY 

HAT  Lady,  chief  est  slave  of  Love  her  lord, 
By  Jove  the  Swan  begot,  and  sister  born 
To  the  great  Twins,  whose  beauty's  rising  morn 
T^oused  up  all  Europe  gainst  the  Asian  horde, 

One  day  unto  her  mirror  spoke  this  word, 
Seeing  her  face  of  all  its  graces  shorn  : 
"  With  how  great  madness  were  my  husbands 
torn 

To  seek  such  rotting  flesh  with  royal  sword  ! 


!  Gods,  too  jealous  of  our  little  day  ! 
Fair  women's  youth  flies  once  for  all  away, 
Yet  serpents  cast  their  age  each  Spring,  for 

years."  .  .   . 

So  Helen  spoke,  and  wept  lost  beauty's  dower. 

The  story  is  for  you.    Tluck  your  youth'  s  flower  ! 
When  April  's  gone,  October  bringeth  tears. 


74 


KISSES  <^AND  DEATH 

Ti>fr  Y  mistress,  kiss  me,  clasp  me,  bold  me  close  f 
Thy  breath  on  my  breath,  warm  me  till  I 
live! 

^/f  thousand  kisses  take,  a  thousand  give  ! 
Love  loves  the  infinite,  nor  limit  knows. 

Kiss  me,  and  kiss  me  yet  again  !   Life  goes, 
Stealing,  fair  mouth,  thy  beauty  fugitive, 
<iSfnd  leaving  lips  no  longer  sensitive, 

Lips  wan  and  hueless,  nothing  like  to  those. 

while  we  live,  kiss  me  with  lips  of  rose, 
sSfnd  kissing,  stammer  words  that  half  unclose 
These  clasped  close-clinging  lips,  words  broken 
and  few. 


e  in  my  arms,  Death  shall  our  shades  unite. 

Or  wake  to  life,  and  I  will  live  anew. 

Life's  day  —  so  brief,  alas  !  —  excels  the  night. 


75 


WITH  FLOW  8^ 

T  SEND  to  you  a  nosegay  that  but  now 

I  chose  among  the  full-blown  blossoms  gay. 
Had  one  not  gathered  them  at  eve  to-day 

The  morrow  morn  had  found  them  fallen  low. 

Let  this  ensample  speak  to  you,  and  show 

That  even  your  beauties,  in  their  flower-array, 
Sre  little  time  must  fade  and  fall  away 

<^/fnd  like  the  flowers  in  one  swift  moment  go. 

Time  passes  swift,  my  love,  ah  !  swift  it  flies  ! 

Yet  no  —  Time  passes  not,  but  we  —  we  pass, 
<^4nd  soon  shall  lie  outstretched  beneath  a  stone. 

<^/fndfor  this  love  we  talk  of —  Death  replies 
Forever  not  one  word  of  it,  alas  !  .  .  . 
Then  love  me,  while  thou  'rtfair,  ere  youth  is 
gone  ! 


76 


"IFTHIS  BE  LOF8" 

TF  this  be  love,  my  Lady  —  day  and  night 

To  think)  muse,  dream,  of  naught  but  how  to 

please, 

To  do  naught  else  but  seek  to  serve  your  ease, 
<^And  worship  you,  who  work  me  most  despite  ; 

If  this  be  love  —  in  long  and  lonely  flight 

To  follow  ever  joy  that  ever  flees 

<^Andfind  a  desert,  watered  with  pain's  lees, 
<L/^  place  of  silence  and  of  lost  delight ; 

If  this  be  love  —  to  live  far  more  in  you 
Than  in  myself ';  and  when  I  seek  to  woo, 

^A "bashed,  to  find  no  word  to  urge  my  suit, 
Torn  with  unequal  strife  at  every  breath, 

In  feeling  strong,  in  speech  irresolute :  — 

If  these  be  love,  then  madly  love  I  you  — 

Love  you  and  know  the  fated  end  is  death, 
heart  speaks  plainly,  though  my  tongue  is 
mute. 


77 


LOSS'S 


OUNBURNT  Summer  less  devours, 
Less  chill  is  Winter's  bitterness, 
The  bowers  in  Spring  have  fewer  flowers, 
^/futumn's  grapes  are  less, 

There  are  less  fish  in  all  the  sea, 

La  Beauce  hath  fewer  harvestings, 
You  '//  see  less  sands  in  Brittany, 
in  Auvergne  less  springs, 


The  night  less  flaming  torches  wears, 

The  woods,  less  leaves  to  watch  them  through, 

Than  bears  my  heart  of  pains  and  cares, 
Love,  for  love  of  you. 


LOSS'S 


/~IOME,  boy,  and  where  the  grass  is  thickest  pied, 
^^    With  robber  hand  cut  the  green  season's  bloom, 

Then  flinging  open  armfuls  strew  the  room 
With  flowers  that  April  bears  in  her  young  pride. 

Then  set  my  lyre,  song's  handmaid,  by  my  side  — 
For  if  I  may,  I'll  charm  away  the  gloom 
That  like  a  poison  worketh  to  consume 
ife,  through  power  of  beauty  undefied. 


Then  bring  me  ink  and  countless  papers  white 
White  paper  shall  bear  witness  to  my  woe, 
Whereon  the  record  of  this  love  I  'II  write. 

White  paper,  that  endures  when  diamond  stone 
Is  worn  away,  shall  bid  the  ages  know 
How  for  love's  sake  I  suffer  and  make  moan. 


79 


LOVB'S 


*T*AKE  thou  this  rose,  sweet  even  as  thou  art, 
•**      Thou  rose  of  roses  rarest,  loveliest, 
Thou  flower  of  freshest  flowers,  whose  fragrance 

blest 
Snwraps  me,  ravished  from  myself  apart. 

Take  thou  this  rose,  and  with  it  take  my  heart, 
zJMy  heart  that  hath  no  wings,  unto  thy  breast, 
So  constant  that  its  faith  stands  manifest, 

Though  wounded  sore  with  many  a  cruel  dart. 

The  rose  and  I  are  diverse  in  one  thing  : 
Sach  mornings  rose  at  eve  lies  perishing, 
While  countless  mornings  see  my  love  new-born 

But  never  night  shall  see  its  life  decay.  .  .  . 
^/fh  !  would  that  love,  new-blossomed  in  the 

morn, 
Sven  as  a  flower  had  lasted  but  a  day. 


go 


HSR  IMMORALITY 

Lady,  had  I  but  the  Heaven-sent  grace 
Of  rhythmic  speech  to  match  my  great  intent, 
This  verse  of  mine  should  grow  more  eloquent 
Than  his  who  charmed  the  ancient  rocks  of  Thrace. 

Higher  than  Horace's  or  Pindar's  place 
I  *d  hang  a  wreath  for  thee,  so  excellent, 
^/f  book  so  wrought  of  noble  sentiment, 

That  T)u  Eellay  would  straightway  yield  the  race  ! 


Laura's  song-ennobled  name, 
With  glory  by  the  listening  ages  crowned, 
Lives  in  the  Tuscan  verse  less  world-renowned 

Than  thine,  whose  praise,  for  pledge  of  Francis 

fame, 

Should  conquer  empires,  peoples,  kings,  and  Time, 
out  soar  Death  itself  on  wings  of  rhyme. 


LIFS,  £0<2\G,  ^4ND  <DEATH 


'TWIXT  LOVS  tsfND  T>EATH 

T  SANG  these  songs,  by  Helen's  love  made  blind, 
That  fated  month  that  oped  my  Prince's  grave  ! 
^reat  as  his  sceptre  was,  it  could  not  save 

CHARLES  from  the  debt  we  owe  to  human  kind. 

'Death  stood  on  one  side.  Lord  of  heart  and  mind, 
Love  ruled  me  from  the  other  side,  and  drave 
Such  torment  through  my  veins,  no  thought  I  gave 

Sven  to  my  King  —  in  my  own  pain  confined. 


in  my  heart  two  different  griefs  make  one  : 
Lady's  coldness,  and  the  shortened  years 
Of  him  I  worshipped  for  his  noble  fame. 


She  living  and  he  dead  bid  tears  to  run  — 
He  asketh  weeping,  she  must  have  my  tears. 
For  Love  and  Death  are  one  thing  and  the  same. 


COUT^SEL  FOR 

TJ  E,  like  a  noble  prince,  in  love  with  fame  ! 
-*-*   Live  glorious  days,  and  win  a  deathless  name 
^Achieving  deeds  that  h'istory  shall  tell, 
Like  those  of  Charles  the  Great,  and  Charles 


Let  not  the  nobles  wrong  the  Third  Estate  ; 
Let  not  the  populace  displease  the  great. 


revenues  with  canny  sense  ; 
The  Prince  who  cannot  govern  his  expense, 
(•x-^W  rule  his  wife,  his  children,  his  estate, 
Will  surely  fail  to  govern  well  the  state.  .  .  . 
But  be  more  miserly  of  friends  than  gold  ; 
Kings  without  friends  were  wretched  from  of  old. 


appear  n  pompous  vesturng  ; 
Virtue  alone  can  fitly  clothe  a  king. 
Let  all  thy  body  shine  with  virtues  bright, 

thy  raiment  with  rich  pearls  bedight.  . 


,  Sire,  since  no  man  born  may  punish  kings 
For  any  wrong,  with  strict  examinings 
Chastise  thyself,  in  fear  lest  finally 
(pod's  justice,  higher  than  thou,  should  punish 
thee.  .  .  . 

86 


TO  <JMARY  STUART, 
FT(ANCS 

(1560) 


NGLAND  and  Scotland  and  the  land  of  France, 
Those  girt  with  ocean,  this  with  mountains 

blue, 

When  you  were  born,  as  ancient  gossips  do, 
Stood  round  your  cradle  royal  disputants. 

France,  Scotland,  England,  each  made  haste  to  ad- 

vance 

Her  claim,  demanding  you  as  her  just  due, 
The  while  you  favored  France,  methinks,for  you 

Were  fain  to  choose  her  towns  for  crown  to  enhance 

Your  fair  head's  beauty.    To  Jove's  throne  serene 
They  take  appeal  —  and  he  to  each  allots 
This  just  decree,  granting  each  one's  demand  : 

That  you  should  be  three  months  Fair  England's 

ghieen, 

Then  for  three  following  months  be  Sjueen  of 
Scots, 

then  be  £fueen  six  months  of  the  French 
land. 

87 


REGRET,  FOR  <J^JRT  STUJRT'S 
VETJRTURE 


TF  spangled  fields  should  lose  their  every  flower, 
Iheir  leaves  ; 


If  heaven  should  lose  the  stars  that  are  its  dower, 

The  sea  its  waves, 
1^4  'palace  proud,  the  glory  of  its  king, 

Its  pearl,  a  ring, 
These  would  be  like  to  France,  that  now  has  lost 

Tour  beauty  bright, 
Her  flower,  her  precious  pearl,  her  glory  and  boast, 

Her  star,  her  light. 

Scotland,  I  would  that  thou  like  Delosfree 

Couldst  wander  far 
<]^or  e'er  behold  thy  bright  ^ueenfrom  the  sea 

^ise  like  a  star  ; 
Till  wearied  with  pursuit,  she  seek  again 

Her  own  Touraine. 
Then  should  my  lips  overflow  with  songs,  my  tongue 

Thrill  with  her  praise, 
Till  like  the  swan  my  sweetest  notes  were  sung 

To  end  my  days. 


THE  SAME  SUBJECT 
(1564) 

"¥  IT  THEN  that  your  sail  bent  to  the  ocean-swell 

^fndfrom  our  weeping  eyes  bore  you  away, 
The  self-same  sail  bore  far  from  France  that 

day 
The  Muses,  who  were  wont  with  us  to  dwell 

While  happy  Fortune  stayed  you  in  our  land 

the  French  sceptre  lay  within  your 
hand.  . 


The  Muses  weeping  left  our  countryside. 

What  should  the  nine  fair  comrades  sing  of  more, 
Since  you,  their  beauteous  subject  and  their  guide, 
On  unreturning  ways  have  left  our  shore, 
Since  you,  that  gave  them  power  to  speak  and 

sing,  ^  ^ 

Cut  short  their  words  and  left  them  sorrowing. 


Tour  lips,  where  Nature  set  a  garden-growth 

Of  pinks  that  sweet  Persuasion  water  eth 
With  nectar  and  with  honey ;  and  your  mouth 

all  of  rubies,  pearls,  and  gentle  breath  — 


Tour  starry  eyes,  two  fires  that  Love  controls, 
That  make  the  darkest  night  like  day  to  shine, 

<^And  pierce  men's  hearts  with  flame,  and  teach 

men's  souls 
To  know  the  virtue  of.  their  light  divine  — 

The  alabaster  of  your  brow,  the  gold 

Of  curls  whose  slightest  ringlet  might  have  bound 
d>/^  Scythian's  heart,  and  made  a  warrior  bold 

Let  fall  his  sword  in  battle  to  the  ground  — 

The  white  of  ivory  that  rounds  your  breast, 
Tour  hand,  so  long  and  slender,  and  so  pure  ; 

Tour  perfect  body,  Nature'  s  finished  best 

<±Sfnd  Heaven'  s  ideal  in  earth-drawn  portrai- 
ture — 


ese,  alas  !  are  gone.  .  .  .  What  wonder  then 
(Since  all  the  grace  that  lavish  Heaven  could 

pour 
T(eyealing  beauty  once  for  all  to  men, 

Have  left  fair  France}  if  France  can  sing  no 

more  ? 

How  should  sweet  songs  to  lips  of  poets  come, 
When  for  your  loss  the  Muses'  selves  are 
dumb  ? 


9o 


is  beautiful  is  transient  too  .  .  . 
Lilies  and  roses  live  brief  days  and  few. 
£ven  so  your  beauty,  brilliant  as  the  sun, 

In  one  brief  day  for  France  has  risen  and  set ; 
Bright  as  the  lightning,  't  was  as  quickly  gone, 
nd  left  us  only  longing  and  regret. 


FOR  tJMARY  STUART,  IN  CAPTIVITY 

(1584) 

>T<  HOUGH  by  wide  seas  and  Time  we  sundered 

are, 
Sweet  ®)ueen,  the  light-flash  of  that  beauteous 

sun, 
Your  eyes,  whose  like  the  whole  world  holdeth 

none, 
from  my  heart  can  wander  long  or  far. 


Thou  other  queen,  that  under  prison  bar 
Holdest  so  rare  a  queen,  bid  wrath  begone 
<tSfnd  change  thy  rede.     From  dawn  to  evening 
star 

The  sun  sees  not  so  base  an  action  done  ! 

'Peoples,  you  shame  your  birth,  sluggards  at  arms  ! 
Your  forbears  Roland,  Renault,  Lancelot, 
Fought  with  glad  hearts  for  noble  ladies1  charms, 

Warded,  and  saved  them.    While  you,  FRENCH- 

MEN, dare 

1S(ot  don  your  armor  !  —  nay,  have  touched  it  not 
To  free  from  slavery  a  queen  so  fair  ! 


IN 
(To  Quillaume  des  <^/futels,  French  'Poet) 

Y  des  Autels,  whose  true, 

Ture  utterance 
Transforms  to  gold  anew 
The  speech  of  France, 

List  while  I  celebrate 

<^\4y  dear  Vendome. 
O  land  thrice  fortunate, 

The  Muses'  home, 

For  thee  ungrudging  Heaven 

Has  emptied  free 
The  horn  of  plenty,  and  given 

<tx^7/  grace  to  thee. 

Two  ridges,  circling,  long, 

With  summits  bold 
Shut  out  the  South-winds  strong, 

The  North-winds  cold ; 

On  one,  my  loved  Gastine, 

The  sacred  wood, 
Lifts  high  its  head  of  green, 

Holy,  and  proud; 
93 


ng  the  other's  side 
Spring  countless  vines, 
That  almost  match  the  pride 
Of  Anjou  wines ; 


In  winding  meadow-ways 
The  Loir  soft-flowing 

With  its  own  wavelets  plays, 
cN(or  hastes  its  going. 

Though  none  from  distant  lands, 

By  hope  cajoled, 
Come  seeking  mongst  thy  sands 

The  toilsome  gold, 


Though  gems  of  Orient  price 

Hide  not  in  thee 
To  tempt  man's  avarice 
cross  the  sea, 


ic,  nor  boastful  Ind 
Can  thee  outvie, 
Honored,  by  Gods  more  kind, 
With  gifts  more  high. 
94 


For  'Justice,  fled  from  earth 

<»x4W  dispossessed, 
Left  thee,  to  mark  thy  worth, 

Her  footprints  blest ; 


<^And  while  no  more  we  see 

The  golden  age, 
Virtue  has  chosen  thee 

For  hermitage. 


The  nymphs,  that  tune  their  voice 

To  notes  of  streams 
Have  made  of  thee  their  choice 

To  list  high  themes, 


Singing  with  happy  grace 

<^/fnd  sweet  accords 
Praise  to  the  Heaven-born  race, 

Our  Bourbon  lords. 


The  Muses,  whom  I  woo, 
Worship,  and  fear, 

The  golden  Graces  too, 
Inhabit  here. 
95 


Though  ever  back  and  forth 
<zJMy  steps  may  roam, 

This  little  plot  of  earth 
<»Sflone  is  home. 

Hence  may  my  fated  end, 

When  time  is  full, 
s_7l4e  into  exile  send 

Terdurable. 

(•x^W  here  you  V/  come  to  weep 

From  lands  afar, 
While  dust  and  darkness  keep 

Tour  friend, 


of. 


TO  THE  WOODSMA^OF  gASTINE 

STAY,  woodsman,  stay  thy  hand  awhile,  and 
hark  — 

It  is  not  trees  that  thou  art  laying  low  ! 
Dost  thou  not  see  the  dripping  life-blood  flow 
From  Nymphs  that  lived  beneath  the  rigid  bark  ? 
Unholy  murderer  of  our  Goddesses, 
If  for  some  petty  theft  a  varlet  hangs, 
What  deaths  hast  thou  deserved,  what  bitter 

pangs, 
What  brandings,  burnings,  tortures,  dire  distress  ! 


0  lofty  wood,  grove-dwelling  birds'  retreat, 

^JS^ojnore  shall  stag  and  doe,  with  light-foot  tread, 
Feed  in  thy  shadow,  for  thy  leafy  head 

<7V0  more  shall  break  the  sun's  midsummer  heat. 

The  loving  shepherd  on  his  four-holed  flute 
Tiping  the  praises  of  his  fair  Janette, 
His  mastiff  near,  his  crook  beside  him  set, 

<7^more  shall  sing  of  love,  but  all  be  mute. 

Silence  shall  fall  where  Echo  spoke  of  yore, 

<iSfnd  where  soft-waving  lay  uncertain  shade, 
Coulter  and  plough  shall  pass  with  cutting  blade 
nd frighted  Pans  and  Satyrs  come  no  more. 


97 


Farewell,  tbou  ancient  forest,  Zephyr's  toy  ! 
Where  first  I  taught  my  seven-tongued  lyre  to 


Where  frst  I  heard  Apollo's  arrows  ring 
<iSf  gainst  my  heart,  and'  strike  it  through  with 

joy  ; 

Where  frst  I  worshipped  fair  Calliope 
<^/fnd  loved  her  noble  company  of  nine 
Who  showered  their  roses  on  this  brow  of  mine  ; 
Where  with  her  milk  Euterpe  nurtured  me. 

Farewell,  ye  ancient  oaks,  ye  sacred  heads, 

With  images  and  flower-gifts  worshipped  erst, 
But  now  the  scorn  of  passers-by  athirst, 

Who,  parched  with  heat  the  gleaming  ether  sheds, 

<^/Ind  robbed  of  your  cool  verdure  at  their  need, 
<t_sfccuse  your  murderers,  and  speak  them 

scathe.  .  .  . 
Farewell,  ye  oaks,  the  valiant  patriot's  wreath, 

Te  trees  of  Jove  himself,  Dodona's  seed. 

"T  was  you,  great  oaks,  that  gave  their  earliest 

food 

To  men,  ungrateful  and  degenerate  race, 
Forgetful  of  your  favors,  recreant,  base, 
(^/fnd  quick  to  shed  their  foster-fathers'  blood  ! 


Wretched  is  he  who  sets  his  trust  upon 

The  world  !  —  how  truly  speaks  philosophy. 
Saying  that  each  thing  in  the  end  must  die, 

<»JMust  change  its  form  and  take  another  on. 

Fair  Tempos  vale  shall  be  in  hills  uptossed, 
<^And  Athos*  peak  become  a  level  plain  ; 
Old  Neptune' s  fields  shall  some  day  wave  with 
grain, 
er  abides  forever,  form  is  lost. 


99 


rue  VOWST^OF  soNg 


uplifted  high, 
Or  living  bronze, 
Or  stone  carved  skilfully, 
Fame's  clarions  — 

<]\feyer  to  men  can  give 
Their  deathless  meed 

Like  song  that  makes  to  live 
Sack  noble  deed* 

If  poets  had  not  come 
To  grace  their  name, 

Virtue  herself  were  dumb 
<*^4nd  tongue/ess  Fame, 

<iSfnd  dead  the  memory 

Of  Hector's  worth. 
But  winged  with  song  theyjly 

Throughout  the  earth. 


THS  TOST'S  TITL8S 

T  T  OLY  Euterpe  teaches  me  to  hate 

The  common  crowd; 

Her  sacred  laurel-branch  marks  my  estate, 
<^And  makes  me  proud. 

She  deigns  to  tune  her  fluting  pipes  for  me 

Within  her  wood, 
<sSfnd  brings  them  me  whene'er  my  heart  may  be 

In  singing  mood. 

From  her  own  spring  she  chrismed  me,  with  her  lip 

She  named  my  name, 
<»x4W  made  me  share  old  Rome's  high  mastership 

<^And  Athens'  fame. 


101 


LAURELS 

(^Dialogue  of  ^onsard  and 

^onsard 

TV /T  Y  too  great  love  of 'you  hath  been  my  bale, 

O  Muses  *—  w ho  defy  Time' s  power,  you 


say! 


For  now  mine  eyes  are  dull,  my  face  is  pale, 

head  at  thirty  years  is  bald  and  grey. 


The  <JMuses 
The  wandering  seaman  weareth  bronzed  looks 

For  beauty  ;  smooth,  soft  skin  doth  not  avail 
To  make  the  soldier  fair  ;  who  o'er  our  booh 

'Doth  bend  is  ugly  save  his  face  be  pale. 


But  what  reward  for  so  long  following 

With  laurelled  brow  your  dances  night  and  day 

Can  e'er  make  good  the  loss  of  my  life's  Spring 
When  youth  like  scattered  dust  is  blown  away  ? 


The 
Living  you  shall  enjoy  a  glorious  fame, 

ter  death  your  memory  shall  bloom  ; 
upon  age  shall  keep  alive  your  name, 
'Thought  but  your  flesh  shall  perish  in  the  tomb. 


O  gracious  recompense  !    What  vantage  hath 
Homer,  who  lies,  mere  nothing,  undergound, 

Without  or  feet  or  head  or  limbs  or  breath, 

Though  on  the  earth  his  name  be  still  renowned  ! 

The  *JMuses 

You  are  deceived.    What  though  the  body  rot 
Within  the  tomb  ?  —  //  cannot  know  or  care. 

But  on  the  soul  of  man  such  change  comes  not. 
Immortal,  freed  offlesh^  it  lives  fore*  er. 


Then  it  is  well  !  I'll  toil  with  joyous  face 

Sven  though  I  die  o*  er-vanquished  in  the  strife 
Of  study  —  to  the  end  no  future  race 

lay  on  me  the  blame  of  wasted  life. 


The  <*JMuses 
'Tis  wisely  spoken.    They  whose  fantasy 

Toward  God  is  true  and  reverent,  as  of  old, 
Shall  still  create  some  noble  poesy, 

their  fame  the  Fates  shall  have  no  hold. 


103 


LIFE-THIL  OSOPHT 

CALMLY  to  wait  whatever  Chance  may  give 
By  Fate's  decree 

<»sflone  brings  happiness,  and  makes  man  live 
Fearless  and  free. 

The  things  of  this  world,  owning  Time's  control, 

<»Jfylove  neath  His  sway  ; 
But  Time  is  swift,  and  swift  the  seasons  roll 

Briefly  away. 

Once  knowledge  dwelt  beside  the  Nile,  then  passed 

To  Greece  alone  ; 
Then  Rome  had  joy  of  it,  that  now  at  last 

Taris  doth  own. 


Cities  and  kingdoms  perish  and  make  room 

For  others  new, 
That  live  awhile  in  glory  of  their  bloom, 

Then  perish  too. 

So  arm  thyself  in  firm  Philosophy 
Gainst  Fate's  control', 

Be  nobly  brave,  and  with  her  precepts  high 
(fird  up  thy  soul. 
104 


Then  whatsoever  change  may  meet  thine  eyes 

Fear  not  at  all, 
Though  the  abyss  should  rise  and  be  the  skies 

<^And  the  skies  fall. 


105 


rue  HAPPY  LIFS 

TT7E  'LL  purge,  my  friend,  the  humors  that  still 

devour 

Our  life  —  the  love  of  money,  the  love  of  power. 
In  wisdom  let  us  strive  to  fashion 

Souls  that  are  free  of  the  heats  of  passion. 

We  '//  drive  out  care,  be  deaf  to  ambition's  call, 
<»>'4W  learn  to  live  content  with  our  little  all. 
If  once  the  soul  win  calm  of  feeling, 
Surely  the  body  will  need  no  healing. 

But  souls  oppressed  with  hunger  of  worldly  gain 
Will  grow  obscure  and  darken  the  reason's  reign. 
ex^  little  smoke  when  care  doth  slacken 
Quickly  sufficeth  the  house  to  blacken. 

(jreat  riches  won,  and  riches  to  win  once  more, 
<^Slre  hoards  of  care  on  care  in  a  heaped-up  store ; 
What  end  shall  serve  such  toilsome  questing, 
Leaving  us  never  the  time  for  resting  ? 

From  out  my  fancy's  tablets  I  V/  raze  all  trace 
Of  this  enticing  world  with  its  shameless  face, 
To  joy  of  song  a  free  heart  bringing 

Oft  as  the  Muses  may  ask  my  singing. 
106 


Be  this  the  only  object  of  my  desire. 

fl^ojnore  to  worldly  gain  shall  my  heart  aspire 

vainly  be  with  hope  tormented. 
This  is  my  kingdom  —  to  live  contented. 


107 


FAREWELL  TO  LOVS 

NCE  the  life  that  ran  in  my  veins  was  stronger ; 
<7S(ow  youth  burns  my  blood  with  desire  no 

longer ; 

Soon  my  grizzled  head  must  be  disapproving 
Bondage  of  loving. 

Young,  I  served  King  Love,  and  my  April  squandered 
<Lx4V  his  valiant  trooper,  and  bore  his  standard, 
Which  at  Menus'  shrine  to  her  care  I  tender, 
Forced  to  surrender. 

Now  no  more  shall  words  of  delight  the  sheerest, 
"  Sweet,  my  soul,  thou  life  of  my  life,  my  dearest," 
Thrill  me.    They  whose  hearts  have  new  blood  to 
heat  them, 

Hearing,  repeat  them. 

I  will  find,  to  kindle  my  life,  new  physic, 
Seeking^  Truth  in  Physic  and  Metaphysic, 
Taths  of  worlds  and  stars  in  their  orbits  learning, 
(jfoing,  returning. 

So,  Farewell,  my  sonnets  —  Farewell,  sweet-singing 

Odes,  Farewell  the  dance  and  the  lyre's  soft  ringing, 

Long  Farewell,  O  love  —  thou  must  seek  afar  now, 

Losing  fRonsard  now. 

108 


TV/T  EANS  death  so  much  ?    Is  it  so  great  an  ill 
•^         <*Sfs  most  men  think  ?  .  .  .  Birth  was  not 

pain-bestead, 

(jx^W  we  shall  feel  no  pain  when  we  are  dead. 
Let  be  !    What  birth  began,  death  must  fulfil. 

u  But  thou  shalt  cease  to  be  !  "    What  then  ?  .  .  . 

The  chill 

That  leaves  our  bodies  hueless,  cold,  and  dread, 
Ends  feeling  too.    The  fateful  Spinner's  thread 

Once  broken,  there  's  no  longing,  wish,  nor  will. 

u  Thou  shalt  not  eat."   I  shall  have  no  desire 
Toward  meat  or  drink.     The  body  by  such  fare 
Lengthens  its  life  and  our  dependency  ; 

The  spirit  needs  them  not.   "  But  love,  the  fire 
Of  joy,  shall  fail  thee."    ^And  I  shall  not  care. 
He  that  escapes  desire,  at  last  is  free. 


109 


<J7I4UNDUS 


\  NOTHER  Winter  comes.  The  last  comes  soon,  I 
**        know. 
For  six  and  fifty  years  have  blanched  my  head  with 

snow. 

The  time  is  here  to  say,  Farewell,  to  love  and  song, 
(jv/^W  take  my  leave  of  life's  best  days,  for  oh  !  how 
long  !  .  .  . 

Yet  I  have  lived.  So  much  stands  safe  beyond  recall. 
I  grudge  not  life  its  joys.  I  have  tasted  one  and  all, 
cNor  e'er  refrained  my  hand  from  pleasures  within 

reach, 

Save  but  as  Reason  set  due  measure  unto  each. 
The  part  assigned  me  I  have  played  on  this  life's 

stage 
In  costume  fitted  to  the  times  and  to  my  age. 

I  've  seen  the  morning  dawn,  and  evening  come 

again. 
I  've  seen  the  storm,  the  lightning-flash,  the  hail,  the 

rain. 
Teoples  I've  seen,  and  kings  !  —  For  twenty  years 

now  past 
I've  seen  each  day  rise  upon  France  as  though  her 

last. 


Wars  I  have  seen,  and  strife  of  words,  and  terms  of 

truce 
First  made  and  then  unmade  again,  then  made  by 

ruse 
To  break  and  make  again  /  .  .  .  I've  seen  that  neath 

the  moon 
(•x^T//  was  but  change  and  chance,  and  danced  to 

Fortune's  tune. 
Though  man  seek  Prudence  out  for  guide,  it  boots 

him  naught ; 

Fate  ineluctable  doth  hold  him  chained  and  caught, 
Bound  hand  and  foot,  in  prison  ;  and  all  he  may 

propose 

Fortune  and  Fate,  wisely  mayhap,  themselves  dis- 
pose. 

Full-feasted  of  the  world,  even  as  a  wedding-guest 
(joesfrom  the  banquet-hall,  I  go  to  my  long  rest ; 
s^As  from  a  king 's  great  feast,  I  go  not  with  ill 

grace 
Though  after  me  one  come,  and  take  the  abandoned 

place. 


gLORU 


I  HAVE  wrought  my  work  —  more  durable  than 
steel; 

<^/fndnot  swift-hasting  Time,  nor  winds,  nor  ram, 
Devouring  waves,  lightning,  nor  thunder-peal, 
fl^or  rage  of  storms,  shall  lay  it  low  again. 

In  that  last  day  and  hour,  when  Death  shall  come 
<^And  set  hard  sleep  like  stone  upon  my  heart, 

c]S(ot  all  Ronsard  shall  pass  beneath  the  tomb. 
There  shall  remain  of  him  the  better  part. 

Forever  and  for  ever,  I  shall  live, 

Shall  fly  the  wide  world  o'er,  deathless  and  free, 
<^And  haunt  the  fields  to  which  my  laurels  give 

Immortal  fame,  by  changeless  Fate's  decree  ; 

For  that  I  joined  two  harpers  of  old  time 

To  the  soft  ringing  of  my  ivory  lyre 
^And  made  them  Vendomese  by  my  new  rhyme. 

Up,  then,  my  Muse  !  —  carry  to  Heaven's  choir 

The  glory  I  have  gained,  announce  the  claim 

That  of  full  right  I  make  in  song's  demesne  ! 
Then  consecrate  thy  son  to  lasting  fame 

ind  his  brows  with  laurel  ever  green. 


TOMB 


CAVES,  and  you,  O  springs 
The  lofty  mountain  flings 
^Downward  along  his  sides 
With  leaps  and  glides, 


O  woods,  and  sun-shot  gleams 
Of  wandering  meadow  -sir  earns, 
<^/fnd  banks  with  flowers  gay, 
List  what  I  say  — 

When  Fate  and  Heaven  decree 
^I4y  hour  is  come  to  be 

Snatched  from  the  light  away 
Of  common  day, 

Let  none  bring  granite  stones 
To  build  above  my  bones 
^/f  tomb  of  noble  height 
In  Time's  despite  — 

<R{ot  marble,  but  a  tree 
Set  to  cast  over  me 

Shadows  of  billowy  sheen, 
Forever  green, 
"3 


<^Andfrom  my  earth  let  spring 
<L/4«  ivy,  garlanding 

The  grave,  and  round  it  wind 
Twisted  and  twined. 

There  shepherds  with  their  sheep 
Coming  each  year  to  keep 
<z^l4y  festival,  shall  pay 
Their  rites,  and  say  : 

"  Fair  isle,  great  is  thy  grace, 
To  be  his  resting-place, 
While  all  the  universe 
Repeats  his  verse. 

"  He  taught  the  Muses'  pride 
To  love  our  country-side, 
<±Sfnd  dance  our  flowers  among, 
To  songs  he  sung. 

"  He  struck  his  lyre  on  high 
Fore'er  to  glorify 

Our  mountains,  crofts,  and  wealds, 
^And  blosmy  fields. 


114 


u  Let  gentle  manna  fall 
,  above  Aw  pall, 

that  soft  and  still 
Spring  nights  distil. 

u  <^And  let  us  keep  his  name, 
^And  glorying  in  his  fame 
Sach  year  bring  him  again 
Traise,  as  to  Pan" 

Thus  shall  the  shepherd-troop 
Speak,  and  from  many  a  cup 
Tour  wine  and  milk  for  food 
<^/Ind  young  lambs'  blood 


me,  who  shall  then 
Be  dwelling  far  from  men, 
Where  happy  spirits  blest 
Take  their  long  rest, 

Where  Zephyr  breathes  his  love 
O*  er  field  and  myrtle-grove 
<z^fnd  meadows  at  all  hours 
<2^ew-decked  with  flowers, 

"5 


Where  care  comes  not ,  nor  hate, 
cj^or  envy  spurs  the  great 

To  spread  fell  sorrow's  dower 
For  lust  of  power ; 

In  brotherly  good-will 
<iSflljoin,  and  follow  still 
The  crafts  they  used  to  love 
On  earth  above. 


,  God  !  to  think,  mine  ear 
1  lyre  shall  hear, 
appho's,  over  all 
musical  ! 


See  how  the  happy  throngs 
Tress  near  to  hear  their  songs 
Till  souls  in  woe  rejoice 
Listing  their  voice, 

Till  Sisyphus  forget 
His  rock-worn  toil  and  sweat, 
Till  Tantalus  obtain 
Surcease  of  pain.  .  .  . 

116 


The  sweet-toned  lyre  alone 
Can  comfort  hearts  that  moan 
<iSfnd  charm  away  all  cares 
Of  whoso  hears. 


THE  TEXTS  AND  THE  TRANSLATION. — The  texts  of 
Ronsard  differ  greatly,  and  no  one  of  them  has  predom- 
inant authority.  Marty-Laveaux  ("  CEuvres  de  Ron- 
sard," Edition  de  la  Pleiade,  1 887-1 893  )  has  followed 
so  far  as  possible  the  edition  of  I  584,  which  has  the  final 
sanction  of  Ronsard  himself ;  but  an  almost  unanimous 
judgment  has  pronounced  this  to  be,  in  many  cases,  the 
poorest  text.  "Two  or  three  years  before  his  death," 
says  the  old  biography  by  Colletet,  "being  old  and  af- 
flicted with  the  gout,  and  much  subject  to  the  attacks  of 
melancholy,  and  being  now  almost  abandoned  by  that 
poetic  fury  which  had  long  kept  him  such  good  and 
faithful  company,  he  made  a  new  edition  of  his  works 
.  .  .  cutting  out  many  beauteous  and  sprightly  inven- 
tions, changing  whole  passages,  and  in  place  of  noble 
and  spirited  lines,  substituting  others  that  had  neither 
the  force  nor  the  fantasy  of  the  first.  For  he  took  no 
account  of  this  —  that  even  though  he  were  the  father 
of  his  own  works,  yet  it  belongeth  not  to  peevish  and 
surly  old  age  to  judge  the  strokes  of  valiant  youth." 
"He  changed  and  corrected  much,  and  often  for  the 
worse,"  says  Sainte-Beuve  less  picturesquely  but  with 
more  critical  authority. 

Blanchemain  ("  (Euvres  de  Ronsard,"  Bibliotheque 
119 


Elzevirienne,  1857-1867)  has  followed  as  far  as  pos- 
sible the  earliest  texts.  But  this  is  going  to  the  other 
extreme.  It  is  perfectly  obvious  that  many  of  Ronsard's 
earlier  revisions,  at  least,  were  improvements,  and  de- 
serve to  stand.  Blanchemain  has  given  many  of  them  in 
his  notes,  and  in  the  books  of  Selections  still  other  vari- 
ants often  appear.  "If  ever,"  says  Gandar,  "a  critical 
edition  of  Ronsard's  Works  were  attempted,  the  variants 
would  take  up  fully  as  much  space  as  the  text. ' '  Marty  - 
Laveaux,  who  had  edited  critically  the  works  of  the  other 
poets  of  the  Pleiade,  gave  up  the  attempt  when  he  came 
to  Ronsard.  "  We  wish  that  we  might  have  given  for  this 
poet  too,"  he  says,  "as  we  have  done  for  most  of  those 
of  the  Pleiade,  the  successive  changes  of  reading  that  he 
made  in  his  works.  But  they  are  so  numerous  that  it 
was  impossible  to  think  of  doing  so." 

Any  single  text,  therefore,  is  not  sufficient  for  a  know- 
ledge of  Ronsard,  nor  is  it  to  be  trusted  in  judging  of 
the  faithfulness  of  the  translations.  If  the  reader,  for  in- 
stance, following  Blanchemain' s  or  Becq  de  Fouquiere's 
text,  finds  ta  bouche  belle  translated  by  "  thy  lips  twin- 
mated"  (CARPE  DIEM,  p.  52),  let  him  not  accuse  me 
of  having  intruded  a  fancy  of  my  own,  perhaps  for  the 
sake  of  the  rhyme,  until  he  has  examined  the  other  texts ; 
for  in  Marty-Laveaux  and  Sainte-Beuve  he  will  read  ta 
levre  jumelle.  This  instance  is  typical  of  a  great  many. 
Some  of  the  more  important  ones  are  indicated  in  the 
Notes ;  but  to  give  them  all  would  require  another  small 
volume.  The  translations  are  in  general  faithful  to  what- 


ever  text  of  the  passage  in  question  seemed  to  me  poeti- 
cally the  best  —  for  there  is  no  other  standard  of  judging. 
In  some  cases  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  condensation ; 
never,  I  think,  of  expansion. 

INTRODUCTION.  —  Page  ix  :  Noble  family  .  .  . 
branches  of  the  royal  blood.  —  See  the  notes  to  Ron- 
sard's  twentieth  Elegy,  To  REMY  BELLEAU,  in  Blanche- 
main,  iv.  298  ;  and  Rochambeau,  "  La  Famille  de 
Ronsart,"  1868. 

Page  xxii  :  Tasso  .  .  .  — This  was  in  1571,  when 
Tasso  was  twenty-three  years  old.  See  Tasso' s  "  Ca- 
taneo  ovvero  degli  Idoli,"  and  A.  Dupre's  "Relations 
du  Tasse  et  de  Ronsard,"  Vendome,  1874. 

Page  xxii :  Cassandre  Salviati  du  Pre.  —  It  has  gen- 
erally been  thought  that  the  name  Cassandra  was  a  crea- 
tion of  the  poet's  classical  fancy,  in  spite  of  express 
statements  to  the  contrary  by  Binet  and  Muret,  and  an 
important  passage  of  the  younger  poet  D'Aubigne,  who 
loved  Cassandra's  niece.  Her  identity  has  been  dis- 
covered only  within  a  year,  and  the  strikingly  romantic 
facts  stated  in  the  text  have  been  established  beyond 
question,  by  the  researches  of  a  student  at  the  ficole  des 
Chartes.  See  M.  Gaston  Deschamps'  lectures  on  "La 
Poesie  franchise  de  la  Renaissance,"  in  the  "Revue  des 
Cours  et  Conferences,"  May  15  and  22,  1902,  with 
references  there. 

Page  xxix:  Helen  of  Surgeres.  —  See  Pierre  de  Nol- 
hac,  "Le  dernier  Amour  de  Ronsard,"  Paris,  1882. 

Page  4  :  LOVE'S  CONQUERING.  — The  texts  of  this 

121 


Sonnet,  the  first  of  the  ««  Amours,"  differ  greatly.    I 
have  used  those  of  Marty-Laveaux  and  Sainte-Beuve. 
Compare  the  beginning  of  Petrarch's  Sonnet  190  : 

Chi  vuol  vedert  quantunque  puonatura  .  .  . 
and  of  Seraphine's  Strambotto  :. — 

Chi  vuol  veder  gran  cose  altiere  e  nuove  .  .  . 

quoted  and  imitated  by  Watson  in  the  zist  " Sonnet" 
of  his  "  Hecatompathia. ' ' 

Page  5  :  ONE  ONLY  AIM  AND  THOUGHT.  —  A  trans- 
lation of  this  sonnet,  with  the  last  two  lines  omitted,  was 
made  by  Keats,  and  published  for  the  first  time  in  his 
"Life,  Letters,  and  Literary  Remains,"  by  Lord 
Hough  ton.  See  Forman's  edition  of  Keats,  ii.  317. 

The  texts  again  diifer  very  considerably.  I  have  used 
that  of  Marty-Laveaux. 

Page  6:  LOVE'S  CHARMING.  —  Imitated  from  Pe- 
trarch, Sonnet  159  :  — 

Grazie,  ch?  a  pochi  'I  tie  I  largo  destina  .  .  . 

Page  7  :  A  PICTURE  AND  A  PLEA.  —  This  is  a  little 
Renaissance  painting,  simple  and  exquisite.  Ronsard 
has  the  pictorial  faculty  often.  In  a  single  stanza  of  the 
ODE  TO  MICHEL  DE  L' HOSPITAL  he  sketches  a  magnifi- 
cent Titianesque  image  of  Jove  hurling  the  thunder, — 

Half  bending  down  his  breast, 
And  lifting  high  his  arm  .  .  . 

With  the  last  part  of  the  sonnet,  compare  the  85th  of 


Shakspere's  Sonnets,  and  the  8th  of  Spenser's  Amo- 
retti:  — 

You  stop  my  toung,  and  teach  my  hart  to  speake. 

Page  10 :  LOVE'S  WOUNDING. — This  is  one  of  the 
sonnet-ideas  that  made  the  tour  of  Europe  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  and  had  one  or  more  versions  in  every  language. 
There  is  another  in  French,  by  Baif,  in  his  "Francine," 
Book  IL  The  earliest  seems  to  be  that  by  Bembo:  — 

Si  come  suol,  poiche  '  /  v erno  aspro  e  rio  .  .  . 

which  has  been  translated  and  paraphrased,  in  three  dif- 
ferent forms,  by  Drummond  of  Hawthornden  (Works, 
Ward's  edition,  ii.  123-125).  Some  of  Drummond 's 
phrases  were  apparently  taken  from  Ronsard,  whom  he 
does  not  mention,  rather  than  from  Bembo.  For  in- 
stance, in  the  next  to  the  last  line,  Drummond  has  "In 
my  young  Spring,"  and  there  is  nothing  in  Bembo  sug- 
gesting this,  while  Ronsard  has  Sur  /'  Av ril  de  mon  age. 
It  is  interesting  to  notice,  in  the  Hawthornden  Man- 
uscripts, published  in  Archaeologica  Scotica,  iv.  74, 
Drummond' s  list  of  "  Bookes  red  anno  1609,  be  me," 
which  includes  :  "La  Franciade  de  Ronsard  ;  Roland 
furieux,  in  Frenche  ;  Azolains  de  Bembe,  in  Frenche  ; 
Amours  de  Ronsard  ;  Hymnes  de  Ronsard  ;  Les  Odes 
de  Ronsard  ;  Elegies  et  Ecglogues  de  Ronsard."  In 
the  following  year  Drummond  read  Bembo  in  Italian 
"et  en  Fra^ais  ;"  and  in  1612,  in  Italian  alone. 

There  is  nothing  in  any  of  the  other  versions  to  cor- 
respond to  Ronsard' s  third  line:  — 
123 


Pour  mieux  brouter  lafeuille  emmiell'ee, 

or  to  his  Libre,  folatre  .  .  .  etc.    Beauties  like  these,  of 

feeling  and  phrasing,  and  the  way  in  which  the  whole 

breathes   the  fragrance  of  spring-time  and  of  dawn, 

make  Ronsard's  sonnet  seem  the  best  of  all  the  versions 

of  this  conventional  idea.    It  lias  the  same  exquisite 

flavor  as  La  Fontaine's  lines  on  the  "  Petit  Lapin :" — 

Iletait  a  lief  air  e  a  /'  Aurore  sa  cour 

Parmi  le  thym  et  la  rosee. 

This  sonnet  has  been  translated  by  Gary  (the  trans- 
lator of  Dante)  in  his  " Early  French  Poets,"  page 
1 02.  He  quotes  Bembo's  version,  but  does  not  speak 
of  Drummond's. 

Page  12:  CASSANDRA'S  PROPHECY. — From  the  text 
of  Blanchemain.  This  prophecy — written  certainly  as 
early  as  Ronsard's  twenty-seventh  year,  and  probably 
some  years  earlier — was  fulfilled  in  every  point,  except 
the  conventional  one  of  his  dying  for  Cassandra's  love. 
He  grew  gray  at  thirty,  he  died "  ere  evening,"  at  sixty, 
his  songs  suddenly  "withered,  shorn  of  youth's  fresh 
bloom,"  posterity  "laughed  his  sighs  to  scorn,"  and 
made  his  "fame  a  by-word  in  the  land."  The  exact- 
ness of  it  is  almost  poignantly  pathetic. 

With  thunder  from  the  right  »  .  .  — Omen  of  evil. 

Page  1 6  :  Like  clouds  in  the  wind  it  vanisheth.  — 
Compare  Browning's  "The  Glove"  (" Peter  Ronsard 
loquitur")  :  — 

Sire,  I  replied,  joys  prove  cloudlets  .  .  . 
124 


Page  20 :  To  THE  BEES.  — This  charming  lyric  is 
one  of  those  rejected  by  Ronsard  in  his  over-critical  old 
age,  and  excluded  from  the  final  edition  of  his  works. 
The  same  is  true  of  MESSENGER  NIGHTINGALE,  THE 
POWER  OF  SONG,  and  LAUREL'S  WORTH,  and  of  the  son- 
nets ABSENCE  IN  SPRING,  THE  MUSES'  COMFORTING,  To 
His  VALET,  KISSES  AND  DEATH,  WITH  FLOWERS,  etc. 

Page  22:  LOVE  ME,  LOVE  ME  NOT. — Compare,  in 
Thomas  Lodge's  story  of  "Rosalynde,"  Montanus*  so- 
called  "Sonnet:"  — 

Beyond  compare  my  pain, 

Yet  glad  am  I, 
If  gentle  Phoebe  daine 

To  see  her  Montan  die. 

Bullen  says  in  his  "Lyrics  from  Elizabethan  Romances," 
page  xi:  "Lodge's  lyric  measures  have  frequently  a 
flavor  of  Ronsard,"  and  cites  as  an  example,  in  "Rosa- 
lynde,"  the  lyric  beginning :  "Phoebe  sat"  .  .  . 

Page  24:  LOVE'S  QUICKENING. — I  have  found  as 
many  different  versions  of  this  important  sonnet  as  I  have 
seen  texts.  For  the  most  part  I  follow  Sainte-Beuve's, 
but  for  the  last  line,  and  some  other  less  important  vari- 
ants, I  have  taken  Blanchemain's. 

This  sonnet  has  been  translated  by  Gary  ("Early 
French  Poets,"  page  101)  and  by  Cosmo  Monkhouse 
(Waddington's  "Sonnets  of  Europe,"  page  123). 

Page  25:  ...  You  to  whom  I  have  said, 

"  You  and  you  only  ever  please  my  heart. ' ' 
125 


Compare  Ovid:  — 

Elige,  cui  dicas,  tu  mihi  sola  places ; 
and  Petrarch:  — 

Col  dole e  honor y  che  d*  amar  quella  haipreso, 

A  CU*  IO  DISSI,  TU  SOLA  A  ME  PIACI. 

(Note  of  Muret,  1553.)     Compare  also  Victor  Hugo  : 
A  qui  j'ai  dit :  Toujours,  et  qui  m'a  dit:  Partout. 

The  texts  again  differ  considerably.  See  Marty-La- 
veaux,  i.  32,  and  Blanchemain,  i.  40.  This  sonnet  is 
not  in  any  of  the  books  of  Selections  from  Ronsard. 

Page  26 :  LOVE  THE  TEACHER  AND  INSPIRER.  — This 
sonnet,  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  in  all  Ronsard' s  work, 
has  not  only  not  been  included  in  any  book  of  Selections, 
but  has  not  been  quoted  or  mentioned  by  any  critic,  so 
far  as  I  can  find.  It  is  the  i  ooth  sonnet  of  the  first  book 
of  the  "Amours."  Blanchemain,  i.  57;  Marty-La- 
veaux,  i.  48. 

Other  instances  of  sonnets  translated  here  which  are 
included  in  no  book  of  Selections,  so  far  as  I  can  find,  are 
THE  POET'S  GIFT  (page  33),  ABSENCE  IN  SPRING  (29), 
THE  MUSES'  COMFORTING  (32),  KISSES  AND  DEATH 
(75),  IF  THIS  BE  LOVE  (77),  LOVE'S  FLOWER  (80), 
To  MARY  STUART,  QUEEN  OF  FRANCE  (87),  and  ON 
DEATH  (109)  —  all  of  them  among  the  most  beautiful 
sonnets ;  the  same  is  true  of  the  poems  IN  DEAR  VEN- 
DOME  (93),  FAREWELL  TO  LOVE  (108),  and  the  splen- 
did DIALOGUE  OF  RONSARD  AND  THE  MUSES  (102). 
126 


This  gives  some  suggestion  of  the  still  undiscovered 
riches  of  Ronsard ! 

Page  27  :  IN  ABSENCE.  — I  know  of  no  other  sonnet, 
in  any  language,  so  full  and  so  compact  as  this  one.  All 
Nature  and  all  love  seem  crowded  into  it.  Yet  it  is  all 
"of  one  breath," — one  simple  phrase  —  like  many 
another  of  Ronsard' s,  TRUE  GIFT,  for  instance.  He  is 
indeed  master  of  the  sonnet-form. 

On  the  forest  of  Gastine,  the  river  Loir,  and  all  of 
Ronsard' s  home-country,  see  a  charming  article  by 
Monsieur  Jusserand — now  Ambassador  from  France  to 
the  United  States  —  in  the  "Nineteenth  Century," 
xli.  588-612:  "Ronsard  and  his  Vendomois." 

The  direct  appeal,  by  name,  to  Gastine  and  Loir 
was  cut  out  in  the  final  edition  by  Ronsard,  and  the 
vague 

Et  vousy  rochers,  les  hotes  de  mes  vers 

substituted.  This  is  a  fair  example  of  many  unfortunate 
changes. 

Page  29:  ABSENCE  IN  SPRING.  —  Compare  Shak- 
spere,  Sonnet  98. 

Page  30  :  THE  THOUGHT  OF  DEATH.  —  Text  of 
Blanchemain,  i.  86.  —  Compare  Shakspere,  Sonnets 
27  and  44. 

Page  3 1  :  REMEMBERED  SCENES.  —  Compare  Spen- 
ser, Amoretti,  no.  78,  and  Drummond  of  Hawthorn- 
den,  Poems,  the  First  Part,  Sonnet  46.  Drummond's 
sonnet  is  said  (Publications  of  the  Modern  Language 
Association  of  America,  xi.  425)  to  have  been  taken 
127 


from  Petrarch's  Sonnet  72  {Avventuroso  piu  d' altro  ter- 
reno^)f  but  it  is  closer  to  the  76th  of  Petrarch  (^Senuccio, 
/'  V01  che  sappi  in  qua  I  maniera),  especially  in  the  ter- 
cets, and  closer  to  Ronsard's  than  to  either  of  Petrarch's. 
See  the  note  on  page  10.  Ronsard's  sonnet  seems  the 
best  of  them  all,  in  simplicity  and  unity. 

The  texts  differ  considerably.  I  have  used,  for  the 
most  part,  that  of  Blanchemain  (i.  92) .  This  sonnet  has 
been  translated,  apparently  from  a  different  text,  by  Lord 
Lytton  (Waddington's  "  Sonnets  of  Europe,"  page 
120),  and  by  Miss  Katharine  Hillard  (Warner's  Li- 
brary of  the  World's  Best  Literature)  ;  both  of  them 
make  the  very  curious  error  of  taking  angelette  for  a 
proper  name  !  —  misled,  perhaps,  by  the  capitalization 
of  some  old  edition.  The  sonnet  plays  a  leading  role  in 
Mr.  Henry  Harland's  story,  "The  Lady  Paramount." 
Page  3  2 :  My  faithful  mate  who  follows  here  and 
there.  —  Taking  the  reading  :  — 

Qui  defa,  qui  de  latfideley  m'accompagne. 
With  the  lines  :  — 

Would  the  nine  Sisters  might  each  season  please 
To  make  my  house  with  their  fair  gifts  replete  .  .  . 
Thyme  blossoms  not  so  sweet  for  honey-bees 
As  their  fair  gifts  upon  my  mouth  are  sweet  .  .  . 

compare  Theocritus,  Idyl  IX.,  lines  31-35  :  — 

T€TTl£  /M€V  TeTTl-yi  <£lXoS,  (MVpfJiaKL  Sfi  fJLVppa^, 

iprjKcs  8'  tpr)£w,  ffjiv  Se  re  MoTcra  /cat  w8a. 
ras  fioi  Tras  CM;  TrXeios  8o/x,os.    ovrc  yap  VTTVOS 


OVT*  lap  e£a7r«/as  yAvKwrepov,  OVTC  fieXtWats 
rovcrov  ffuv  Motcrat  <£i'Aat  .  .  . 


("  Cicala  is  dear  to  cicala,  .  .  .  but  to  me  the  Muse 
and  song.  Of  this  may  all  my  house  be  full,  for  neither 
sleep,  nor  Spring  that  comes  unlooked-for,  is  more  sweet 
—  nor  flowers  are  more  sweet  to  honey-bees  —  so  dear 
to  me  are  the  Muses.") 

Page  33  :  THE  POET'S  GIFT.  —  With  this  sonnet 
compare  HER  IMMORTALITY,  page  81.  The  idea  of 
these  two  sonnets  often  occurs  elsewhere  in  Ronsard. 
Compare  Spenser's  Amoretti,  75,  82,  and  especially 
69.  The  same  idea  is  constantly  recurring  in  Shakspere's 
sonnets,  from  the  iyth  on. 

Page  3  8  :  Aratus.  —  Aratus  was  a  Greek  poet  of  the 
third  century  B.  c.,  who  wrote  inverse  a  treatise  on 
astronomy,  called  the  "  Phenomena.  '  '  It  was  translated 
into  Latin  verse  by  Cicero.  After  Ronsard'  s  study  of  it, 
his  friend  Remy  Belleau,  another  poet  of  the  Pleiade, 
translated  it  into  French. 

Aratus'  name,  if  known  now,  is  known  for  quite 
other  reasons  than  his  "  dreary"  poem  on  astronomy  ; 
for  Theocritus  sang  of  Aratus'  love  in  his  seventh  Idyl, 
and  Saint  Paul  quoted  him  to  the  Athenians:  "As  cer- 
tain also  of  your  own  poets  have  said  ..." 

The  texts  vary,  especially  in  the  second  stanza,  and 
at  the  end. 

Page  40:  To  THE  HAWTHORN-TREE.  —  "A  mas- 
terpiece of  grace  and  freshness."  (Sainte-Beuve.) 
129 


Translated  by  Gary  ("Early  French  Poets,"  page 
114). 

Rival  camps  of  scurrying  ants  — 

from  the  reading :  — 

Deux  camps  de  drillants four  mis. 

Nightingale  the  chorister  — 
from 

Le  chantre  rossignolet. 

In  thy  topt  etc. 
from 

Sur  ta  cime  ilfait  son  nid 

Eien  garni 
De  laine  et  define  soie. 

Page  45  :  MARIE,  ARISE.  —  " These  mignardises  are 
fairer  in  their  simplicity  than  all  the  subtle  inventions  of 
the  Spanish  and  some  of  the  Italians."  (Note  of  Bel- 
leau,  1560.) 

Page  52  :  Dost  think  to  kiss  King  Pluto*  s  mouth"  etc. 
—  This  is  imitated  by  Watson  in  his  "  Hecatompa- 
thia,"  the  last  part  of  "Sonnet"  27.  Watson  has  also 
imitated  Ronsard,  avowedly,  in  his  54th  and  83d  "Son- 
nets," and  unavowedly  in  his  92d,  which  is  taken  from 
LOVE'S  ATTRIBUTES, page  13.  Both  Ronsard  and  Wat- 
son may  have  taken  some  suggestions  from  Phaedrus 
(iii.  17),  but  in  very  important  variations  from  Phae- 
drus  Watson  seems  to  follow  Ronsard. 

Page  54:  LOVE'S  LESSON.  — Compare  Catullus:  — 
130 


Soles  occidere  et  redire  possunt ; 
Nobis  cum  semel  occidit  brevis  lux, 
Nox  est  perpetua  una  dormienda. 
Da  mi  basia  mille,  deinde  centum,  etc. 

Page  6 1  :  NATURE'S  DRINKING-SONG.  —  Imitated 
directly  from  the  Anacreontea,  no.  1 9  (Bergk,  "  Poetae 
lyrici  Graeci,"  fourth  edition,  iii.  310). 

Page  62:    The  coming   morrows'    time  (Le  temps 
futur  du  lendemairi} .  —  Compare  Horace :  — 
Quid  sit  futurum  eras,  fuge  quaerere. 

Page  63  :.  .  .  Estienne, 

Who  saved  from  Lethe*  s  treasures  .  .  .  etc. 
The  Anacreontea  were  discovered  and  published  from 
the  manuscript  by  Ronsard's  friend,  the  famous  printer 
and  humanist  Henry  Estienne,  in  1554.  They  were 
soon  translated,  entire,  by  Remy  Belleau.  See  Ron- 
Sard's  ode  to  him,  beginning:  Tu  es  un  trop  sec  bibe- 
ron  .  .  . 

Page  64 :  THE  PRAISE  OF  ROSES.  —  Imitated,  in 
part,  from  the  Anacreontea,  no.  5  (Bergk,  iii.  322). 

Page  69  :  SWEET-HEART,  COME  SEE  IF  THE  ROSE.  — 
This  is  Ronsard's  best-known  lyric.  It  has  been  trans- 
lated by  Mr.  Andrew  Lang  ("Ballads  and  Lyrics 
of  Old  France"),  by  Miss  Hillard  (Library  of  the 
World' s  Best  Literature) ,  and,  anonymously,  in  ' '  Poems 
You  Ought  to  Know,"  published  by  the  Chicago  Tri- 
bune. 

Page  70:  LIFE'S  ROSES. — This  is  Ronsard's  best- 


known  sonnet.  The  text  can  be  found  in  any  anthology, 
and  fortunately  there  are  only  two  slight  variants — one 
of  them,  however,  important:  in  the  second  line,  the  best 
reading  is  certainly  d'evidant  ("winding  thread")  and 
not  devisant  ("gossiping"). 

It  has  been  translated  by  Mr.  Lang  (in  "Grass  of 
Parnassus"),  by  Miss  Hillard,  and  by  Mr.  C.  Kegan 
Paul  (  Waddington's  "Sonnets  of  Europe"),  and  para- 
phrased by  Thackeray.  The  translation  by  Mr.  Lang  is 
perhaps  the  best  existing  version  in  English  of  anything 
by  Ronsard.  But  he  does  not  render  either  d'evidant  or 
devisant ',  and  unfortunately  omits  altogether  the  en  vous 
emerveillant,  at  the  end  of  the  third  line — that  touch 
of  ever-new  wonder  at  the  beauty  of  the  old  songs,  and 
of  ever-new  amazement  that  they  were  written  for  that 
maiden  who  so  strangely  was  and  is  not  she. 

Page  74:  That  Lady  .  .  .  —  "He  signified!  the 
Helen  of  the  Greeks,  who  ravished  even  those  that  by 
hearsay  had  conceived  but  an  imagination  and  fantasy  of 
her  beauty."  (Note  of  Nicholas  Richelet. ) 

Page  76:  WITH  FLOWERS. —  Compare  the  Greek 
Anthology:  "I  send  thee,  Rhodoclea,  this  crown  that 
with  my  own  hands  I  have  woven  thee,  of  beauteous 
flowers ;  there  is  a  lily,  a  rosebud,  a  wet  anemone,  a 
warm  narcissus/ and  the  darkly  bright  violet.  Wear  thou 
this  crown,  and  cease  to  be  too  proud.  For  thou  dost 
bloom  and  die  —  thou,  and  the  crown."  (Quoted 
by  Sainte-Beuve,  "  Causeries  du  Lundi,"  Oct.  13, 
1855.) 

132 


Time  passes  swift,  my  love,  ah  !  swift  it  flies  ! 
Yet  no — not  Time,  alas!  but  we — we  pass. 

See  Mr.  Austin  Dobson's  variations  on  the  theme  of  these 
two  lines,  in  "The  Paradox  of  Time  "  (Old- World 
Idyls,  page  175). 

Page  79  :  LOVE'S  RECORDING. — This  is  the  sonnet 
beginning,  in  Blanchemain's  text:  — 

Fauche,gar$on,  d'une  mainpilleresse, 
Le  bel  esmail  de  la  verte  saison, 
Puts  apleinpoing  en-jonche  la  maison 

Desfleurs  qu1  Avril  enfante  en  sajeunesse. 

It  has  been  translated  by  Lord  Lytton  (Waddington, 
"  Sonnets  of  Europe,"  page  121 )  from  a  very  different 
text. 

Page  80:  LOVE'S  FLOWER.  —  Blanchemain,  i.  54: 
Prens  cette  rose  .  .  .  This  is  another  of  the  many  beauti- 
ful sonnets  included  in  no  book  of  Selections.  See  note 
on  page  26. 

Page  8  5 :  'Twixr  LOVE  AND  DEATH.  — Blanchemain, 
i.  366.  This  is  the  last  of  Ronsard's  love-sonnets. 
Charles  IX.  died  on  May  30,  1 574.  However  weak  he 
may  have  been  as  a  king — and  he  is  doubtless  painted 
worse  than  he  was — he  was  a  generous  and  on  the 
whole  intelligent  patron  of  the  arts,  and  a  close  friend, 
almost  comrade,  of  Ronsard,  who  saw  his  best  side, 
and  seems  to  have  had  a  sincere  love  for  him.  They 
exchanged  verses  on  several  occasions.  The  follow- 


ing  are  the  best  known  among  those  attributed  to  the 
king  :  — 

CHARLES  IX.    TO  RONSARD 
To  be  a  poet  is  a  higher  thing, 
Whatever  men  say,  than  even  to,  be  a  king! 
We  both  alike  bear  crowns  whose  glory  lives, 
But  kings  receive  them,  and  the  poet  gives. 
Thy  mind,  onjire  with  Heaven's  especial  Grace, 
Shines  of  itself,  I  by  my  height  of  place. 
If  toward  the  Gods  our  rank  I  seek  to  try, 
Thou  art  their  favorite,  and  their  image  I. 
Thy  Muse  with  sweet  accords  men* s  passion  binds  — 
Though  I  their  bodies,  thou  dost  sway  their  minds  ; 
Thy  mastership  is  such,  it  makes  thee  rule 
Where  proudest  tyrants  ne'er  have  he  Id  contra  I. 
I  can  give  men  their  death  by  my  decree  ; 
But  thou  canst  give  them  immortality. 

Unfortunately  some  doubt  must  be  felt  about  the  authen- 
ticity of  these  lines.  The  style  of  a  later  age  seems  to 
show  through,  even  in  the  translation. 

Page  86:  COUNSEL  FOR  KINGS. — Blanchemain,  vii. 
37-38,  passim.  This  advice,  somewhat  in  the  Polonius 
vein,  was  addressed  to  Charles  IX.  It  at  least  shows 
Ronsard's  independent  attitude  toward  the  court. 

Page  87  :  To  MARY  STUART,  QUEEN  OF  FRANCE.  — 
Blanchemain,  v.  304. 

England's  Queen.  —  After  the  death  of  Mary  Tudor, 
the  Guises  induced  Mary  Stuart,  then  Dauphine  of 

J34 


France,  to  assume  the  sovereignty  of  England.  Accord- 
ing to  the  point  of  view  which  did  not  recognize  the 
marriage  of  Henry  VIII.  with  Anne  Boleyn,  Mary 
Stuart  was  the  legitimate  heir  to  the  throne  of  England, 
through  her  grandmother  Margaret,  the  daughter  of 
Henry  VII. 

She  was  Queen  of  France  from  June,  I  559,  to  De- 
cember, 1560. 

Page  88  :  REGRET.  — This  consists  of  two  frag- 
ments from  a  long  poem  on  the  fortunes  of  Mary  Stu- 
art ;  Blanchemain,  vi.  24,  26. 

Page  89  :  THE  SAME  SUBJECT.  — This  is  the  begin- 
ning of  a  much  longer  poem  ;  Blanchemain,  vi.  10. 

"  There  is  more  true  and  earnest  feeling  in  some 
little  verses  by  Ronsard  on  the  unhappy  Queen  of  Scots, 
than  in  all  the  elegant,  fanciful,  but  extravagant  flattery 
of  Elizabeth' s  poets."  No  wonder,  for  she  possessed 
the  beauty  and  the  charm  which  Elizabeth,  with  all  her 
power,  lacked.  The  men  of  the  Renaissance  saw  Beauty 
born  anew,  and  worshipped  Her,  like  their  masters  the 
Greeks.  Ronsard  goes  even  further  than  Homer,  and 
makes  the  old  men  on  the  Trojan  wall  say  of  Helen  :  — 

Not  a  II  our  ills  are  worth  one  look  of  hers! 

Mary  Stuart  was  the  Helen  of  the  Renaissance.  We 
need  have  no  sympathy  with  those  over-zealous  advo- 
cates who  would  whitewash  away  all  the  crimson  color 
of  her  life.  She  sinned  greatly,  no  doubt.  But  she  was 
still  more  sinned  against.  Ronsard  knew  her  in  the 
'35 


sweet  purity  and  wonderful  precocious  charm  of  her 
girlhood  as  Queen  of  France,  and  remained  loyal  to  her 
through  long  misfortune  and  captivity  —  as  the  splen- 
did arraignment  and  appeal  of  the  next  sonnet,  written 
only  the  year  before  his  death,  will  show. 

Page  1 04  :  LIFE-PHILOSOPHY.  —  This  poem  has 
been  translated  by  Miss  Hillard,  who  compares  it  with 
Chaucer*  s  <  <  Ballad  of  Good  Counsel.  * '  Compare  also 
Horace*  s  Ode  iii.  of  Book  iii. :  — 

Justum  et  tenacem  propositi  virum  .  .  . 
especially  the  lines  :  — 

Si  fractus  illabatur  orbis 
Impavidum  ferient  ruinae. 

Page  1 08  :  —  FAREWELL  TO  LOVE.  — Though  Ron- 
sard  calls  these  verses  "  Sapphics,"  the  Sapphic  stanza 
properly  speaking  cannot  exist  in  French.  What  Ron- 
sard  uses  is  probably  the  nearest  possible  equivalent  for 
it  —  a  stanza  consisting  of  three  eleven-syllable  lines 
with  caesura  after  the  fifth  syllable,  followed  by  one  five- 
syllable  line,  and  rhyming  as  in  the  translation,  except 
that  in  this  poem,  and  in  all  his  "  Sapphics,"  Ronsard 
confines  himself  to  masculine  rhymes. 

Page  112:  PERMANET  GLORIA.  —  Compare  Horace, 
Ode  xxx.  of  Book  iii.  :  — 

Exegi  monumentum  aere  perennius, 
and  the  whole  ode.    Compare  also  Ovid:  — 
136 


Jamque  opus  exegi,  quod  nee  Jo  vis  ira,  nee  ignes 
Nee  poterit  ferrum,  nee  edax  abolere  vetustas. 

Two  harpers  of  old  time.  —  Pindar  and  Horace. 

Page  113  :  RONSARD'S  TOMB.  —  Blanchemain,  ii. 
249  ;  and  most  books  of  Selections.  Some  stanzas  of 
this  poem  have  been  translated  by  Mr.  Lang,  in 
"  Rhymes  a  la  Mode."  There  is  also  a  translation  of 
the  whole  poem,  by  J.  P.  M.,  in  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine, cxxxvi.  716. 

By  the  beauty  of  its  Nature- worship,  its  joy  in  Song, 
its  quiet  acceptance  of  life  and  of  death,  the  simplicity 
of  its  expression,  and  the  purity  of  its  form,  this  poem 
is  one  of  the  few  modern  examples  of  perfect  classic 
art. 


137 


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